


The Spider Web Theory

by iwannagetbetter



Series: Cover My Eyes [2]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Aromantic Character, Bisexual Character, Existential Bullshit, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Homophobia, M/M, Team Dynamics, Unplanned Pregnancy, hockey-typical violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-09-15 21:36:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9258245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwannagetbetter/pseuds/iwannagetbetter
Summary: “This is the Aces' second gay scandal so far this year,” a reporter starts.“Really? Only the second?” Steve-O says. “Surely we can do better.”





	1. Leo Gordon :: A is for Asshole

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of around nine chapters of a larger story related to Cover My Eyes. Since this relies on OCs pretty heavily, you should probably read that first. This is told from the perspective of Leo Gordon, who is an alternate captain for the Aces.
> 
> Tags that apply to this chapter are 'homophobia,' 'friendship,' and 'team dynamics.'

# Leo Gordon :: A is for Asshole

Leo plays hockey. He _knows_ whackjobs.

Specifically, he knows Steven Bouchard.

Steve’s one of the oldest guys on the team: in his thirties, single, maybe seven real teeth left. He’s hot-headed, crude, and looming. He’s good at what he does on the ice, and he’s okay at what he does off—which is nominally leading the Aces defense, and actually just glaring the younger guys into submission.

“True,” Leslie says when Leo mentions it to her. “His leadership style is one part eyebrows and one part scars.”

/////

Leo isn’t _worried_ , exactly, about the way the guys might respond to Parse and Fitzy’s big gay mid-season announcement. Worried is a strong word.

But if he’s at all _concerned_ about anybody, it would be Steve. Because Steve’s a grade-A asshole.

/////

“Can I talk to you? In private,” Leo says, a few days after the official press conference.

“Yeah, ‘course,” Steve answers.

“Okay,” Leo says, crossing his arms once they’re alone in the players lounge. “Parse and Fitz have a lot of shit to deal with, and I don’t want the locker room to be another thing weighing them down.”

“So you want me to help regulate? Make sure no one stirs up shit?” Steve asks, which, no, that’s not what Leo wanted, but Steve has the other A, so it’s not completely out of the blue.

“Look,” Leo sighs. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, okay? But you don’t have the best track record with this kind of shit. And you’re my friend, but if you do _anything_ that makes Parse or Fitzy feel unwanted or unsafe, I’ll fucking kick your ass back to Quebec, okay?”

“Uh,” Steve says, but Leo’s not done.

“And if you don’t have their backs on ice? If you don’t show up when people give them shit or lay dirty hits, then I’ll let Scotty have a go, too, eh?”

“Gordo,” Steve interjects. “Leo, they’re my guys, right? They’re team, and I don’t fuck with that. You _know_ I don’t fuck with that.”

And the thing is, Leo _does_ know.

Leo knows that Steve would kill for any of their guys. He knows that Steve is as loyal as a man can be. But Leo also knows that Steve’s no angel, knows he can’t keep a relationship and that it’s not for a lack of trying, knows nothing is off limits to him when he chirps on-ice, knows what bumper stickers he’d have on his car if it weren’t a ridiculous chrome Maserati.

Leo knows what names Steve calls guys across the face-off dot, and he knows that Steve will turn around and beat the shit out of a Canuck if one of them calls an Ace exactly the same thing.

“Yeah,” Leo says, “I know you’re loyal. But you’re a fucking asshole. And if I hear you _acting_ like an asshole, I’ll go to Yates, and I’ll make sure you lose your A.”

Steve grins. It’s very gummy.

/////

Leslie tells Leo that _he’s_ kind of an asshole, too, if he’s threatening Steve over his bullshit now that it’s personal, but he’s never said anything about it before.

“Yeah,” Leo sighs, “You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Leslie says, smirking at him over their dinner.

He rolls his eyes; they both know she’s not always right. She painted their bathroom tangerine on a whim, and she’s basing her March Madness bracket on how much she likes the mascots—Hawaii's gonna win it all this year, apparently. But, really, there’s no one whose opinion Leo values more.

“I think it just… it always felt like it was someone else’s job to crack down on that, y’know? Like, Parse or Yates.” He stabs at his plate angrily. “And now that it’s Parse I’m worried about…”

“You’re protecting him. I get it,” Leslie says. “But it’s _always_ your job if you hear shit going on, whether you think the guy can handle it or not, whether someone else should step in or not. It’s _your_ job.”

“Yeah,” Leo says, looking up at her. “Yeah, I know. I’m gonna do better.”

/////

Leo feels like he might be more on edge than Parse and Fitzy, honestly. They’re just loitering around, bro-ing it out, eye-fucking in the showers when they think no one’s looking, taking a giant, stinking shit on the media. All while Leo’s prowling the hallways, listening to every muttered word on the bench—

“ _You’re not a spy, Leo_ ,” Leslie says over the phone. “ _Stop being so melodramatic_.”

“I know, I know,” he says, feeding quarters into the vending machine.

“ _Seriously, pull yourself together. Talk to the boys, okay? Don’t just snap at people when they’re negative. Start things off positive._ ”

“You got it, honey,” Leo says. He grabs his Snickers, shoves it in the front pouch of his hoodie and speed walks back to his room. “Easier said than done.”

“ _Literally everything is easier said than done, babe,_ ” she sighs, and he can practically hear her eyeroll. “ _It might be awkward, but that’s the worst it’s gonna be for you. Suck it up._ ”

/////

“Can I sit here, or am I crashing liney time?” Leo asks, dropping his omelet into the empty setting at a table with JB, Sebs, and Wags. These three get along, but they’ve all got closer friends on the team. He’s definitely crashing liney time.

“Nah, man,” Wags says. “Glad to have you.”

They continue whatever easy conversation they’d been having before—JB chirping Wags about his new girlfriend, Sebs laughing at the parts that aren’t actually funny—and Leo tries to figure out how to do what Leslie said.

“Gordo? You good?” Wags asks, kicking him under the table. “Looking kinda constipated.”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Leo coughs, swallowing his food. “I just—I’m trying to get a feel for how people are responding to Parse and Fitzy’s announcement, make sure there’s nothing nasty going on. But I don’t know how to do that.”

JB hums in commiseration, and Wags nods like he understands.

It’s Sebs who speaks up first. This might be the guy’s third year on the team, but Leo will never not think of him as a kid, so it’s always a surprise to hear him lead anything.

“I hear nothing bad, not from Richards or Hackman. You talk to them, they have things to say, yeah, but nothing bad.”

“Yeah?” Leo says. “Like what?”

“Nothing bad,” Sebs repeats, “Have to ask them. But things to say about including, about, um. _Senstive_. Senstive-y?”

“Sensitivity, yeah, got it.” Leo nods, makes a mental note to talk to both of them.

“I mean, I’ve got some stuff to say about that, too,” JB says. “Any space that’s predominately made up of any one kind of person has _got_ to pay greater attention to the way it treats minorities if that space wants to be welcoming to them. Like, that’s just a necessary element of human society.”

Leo glances at Sebs to make sure he’s not the only person whose head that went over.

“Fuck, have you been _reading_ , Jay?” Wags laughs. “That’s some next-level shit.”

“No,” JB says, blushing and digging into his oatmeal. “I just—Harpy has a lot to say about it, okay? About minorities in pro sports, so I’ve been picking up stuff, alright? You should talk to him about it; leave me alone.”

“No, no,” Leo says, clapping JB on the arm in an attempt to rescue the situation. “That’s—good, okay, really good. It’s awesome to hear, we need people like you around to show the rest of us how to be less shitty.”

/////

Leo’s the last on the plane out of San Jose, so after he’s shoved his carry-on into the last available compartment, he knows where he’s gonna end up.

The dads with young kids all sit together on the back of the plane, each napping in their own separate row on the way out of Las Vegas, all slightly restless and ready to be home on the way back in. Leo tries to avoid sitting with them at all costs, not because iPhone pictures of nearly identical infants aren’t neat, or whatever, but he and Leslie are in the _definitely not now and maybe not ever_ camp when it comes to children, which is a problem, because if you’re young and you’re married, then literally no one will believe that. For example—

“Ay, Gordo’s joining Dad Club!”

“You got something to tell us, bud?”

“Finally figured out how to get the puck in the net, eh, Leo?”

“Shut the fuck up, Hazard,” Leo says, taking extra care to jostle Brandon as he squeezes past him to get to the window seat.

Hazard laughs and swats at his ass; Leo sits on him until the stewardess clears her throat meaningfully and he has to drop into his seat and buckle up.

Leo can hear a good amount of snickering from his area of the plane; he glares at all the other guys he can make eye contact with between the headrests.

“Gordo,” he hears, and that’s definitely Gunner leaning over from the seat behind them, “Want to see a picture of little baby Maja?”

“I’d love to,” Leo says, since he’s not a dick. Gunner sticks his arm through the gap between Hazard and Leo’s seats, already opening up the album of baby pictures on his phone.

“She’s teething now, look,” Gunner says proudly, and Hazard coos over the picture of Maja shoving a toy puck in her mouth, drooling profusely all over her big brothers, Hugo and Emil.

“When is Emma’s due date, again?” Leo asks Hazard as the plane begins to taxi down the runway.

“March 15th,” he says. “She’s about ready to be done now.”

“No kidding,” Gunner says, “Third trimester, worst one.”

“Pretty sure that’s not true, bud,” Hammer says from across the aisle. “Like, one hundred percent sure.”

“First’s worst,” Pagano sings.

“Maybe in hindsight,” Gunner says. “But you don’t tell your pregnant wife that.”

Leo nods along, as though he has a clue about this shit. The closest he’s ever been to a pregnant woman was probably 27 years ago right before he exited the womb.

“Hey,” he says to Hazard, when the good-natured bickering has died down, “Have you heard anything from these guys about Fitzy and Parse? I just want to cover all my bases.”

“Oh,” Hazard says, and he shifts around in his seat. “The—gay stuff? Yeah, we’ve talked about it.”

“This isn’t, like, some sort of homophobe witch hunt,” Leo says, even though that’s exactly what this is. “I’m not reporting to anybody, I’m just trying to get an idea of where everyone stands, you know? Take a pulse, et cetera.”

“Sure, of course,” Hazard says. “Okay, so, Gunner: he doesn’t give a fuck. He’s Swedish, right? Makes it very clear how progressive he is. And Hammer doesn’t care, either. I get the whole live and let live kind of vibe off of him.”

“And you and Pagan?”

“We’re not,” Hazard starts, then bites his lip. “I’m not an asshole, okay? Like, I’m not a homophobe,” he sighs and runs his hands up and down his thighs. “I don’t think it’s, y’know, _right_ , I guess? Like I wouldn’t do it. Not that I’m—anyway. But it’s not my business, and I’m gonna, like, support them as people, even if I don’t like everything they do.”

“And Pagan thinks the same?” Leo presses.

“Pagan… Pagan’s a little different,” Hazard says. “He grew up a lot more... well, I think his parents are putting a lot of pressure on him over this.”

“Over _this_?” Leo asks, incredulous. “Over what his teammates are doing? _Hypothetically_ doing?”

“Yeah, well. They’ve always been sort of crazy.”

“Makes sense, I guess,” Leo says. “And hey, thanks for talking to me. I swear I’m not gonna, like, string you guys up or something. Just needed to understand where we’re all coming from, make sure we’ve got our boys’ backs on the ice.”

“Of course,” Hazard says, affronted. “I’d never—fuck, Gordo, none of us would _ever_ —”

“I know,” Leo soothes. “You’re good. But you understand why I’ve got to make sure.”

“No, yeah. And hey, I’ll keep an eye out, right? I don’t want anyone to get hurt, no matter who they are.”

/////

“So they’re at least tolerant, if not wholly on board,” Leslie says, handing him some wine glasses to put away on the top shelf.

“I think so,” Leo answers. “Which is alright. Like, I can’t change a person’s convictions, I guess.”

“Well, you can,” Leslie says, slamming the dishwasher closed. She hands him the last two glasses. “But I’d be more concerned about what they do based on their beliefs than about what they actually believe.”

He closes the cabinets carefully and turns to look at her, leaning against the counter. She’s a good foot and a half shorter than him, wearing one of his Team Canada shirts with leggings, shiny dark hair falling down around her face.

“That's wise, babe,” he says.

She smiles when she catches him watching her, then throws a rag in his face to help wipe down the counters.

/////

“So what’ve you got?” Steve asks when they’re alone in the equipment room.

“What?” Leo says, confused. “A hockey stick? What are you talking about?”

Steve waves an impatient hand.

“What’ve you got on the _team_ , Gordo? Are they all assholes? Gonna hang Parse and Fitzy out to dry?”

“Oh,” Leo says. “No, they—everyone’s been fine.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Um, Mäkinen, Richards, and Hackman,” he lists off. “Wagner, Bertucci, Harper... uh, Nilsson and Hamilton, Haas, Pagano, kinda. And Lindeman, too, I talked to him this morning.”

“Anyone else?”

“Scotty and Chaz are good. Scott did that YCP spot a few years back, and Chaz was there for the press conference, right?”

“Hm,” Steve says. “Interesting.”

He walks out without another word.

/////

“He’s an _ass_ ,” Leo whines that night, curled up on his side with his head pillowed on Leslie’s thighs as she reads. “Why is he making this so _hard_?”

“Stop obsessing,” Leslie says, flipping a page. “You’re gonna give yourself an aneurysm.”

“But what if he—” Leo starts, but Leslie pulls his glasses off his face and smacks him lightly.

“Shut up, Leonard,” she says fondly. “Worrying about it isn’t going to change anything. Just deal with whatever it is when it comes.”

/////

“You were mostly right,” Steve says three days later, dropping into the seat next to Leo. They’re about to fly out of McCarran, towards Miami, and Leo’s trying to pick which selfie to send Leslie before they take off. It’s a choice between the fishface and the soft smile.

“Hazard’s conservative, but he’s not a cockhead. Same for Kipper and Pagan.”

“Uh,” Leo says. “Okay?”

“Wags, though. He’s a fucking piece of shit. Should’ve paid more attention, Gords, you’re losing your touch.”

“Wait, what?” Leo says, gripping his phone more tightly in his hand. “He isn’t—he didn’t say anything bad to me, what the fuck!”

“You don’t have the right _demeanor_ , you pansy,” Steve says, punching him in the thigh. “When people think they’re being watched, they act different.”

“So how’d _you_ get it out of him, then?” Leo says hotly.

Steve rolls his eyes, put upon.

“I’m the perfect undercover asshole, you idiot. Everyone assumes I’m gonna fuck Parse up, so they think they can say whatever they want around me.”

“Shit,” Leo says. That’s genius.

“Yeah. So keep both eyes on Wags. Actually, keep your eyes on Perkins and Roman, too.”

Leo glares at Steve for a minute, then glares at his lap, then out the window at the guy waving his giant glow-stick around on the ground. He picks up his phone.

**Leo Gordon** 8:10  
babe im a fuck up

**Leslie** 8:10  
?

**Leo Gordon** 8:11  
i fucked up

**Leslie** 8:11  
yes but how

**Leo Gordon** 8:11  
missed half the homophobes on the team

**Leslie** 8:12  
ok well you found them now, right?

**Leo Gordon** 8:12  
only because of steveo

**Leslie** 8:14  
oh my g

**Leslie** 8:14  
is this just u being competitive with steven?

**Leslie** 8:14  
babe

**Leslie** 8:14  
ur so lame i love u

Leo huffs and sends back _love u too_ along with the soft smile selfie from earlier so that she’ll remember how her husband is handsome and gentle, and totally not a dramatic, aggressive dick.

“Cheekbones are killer in that shot,” Steve says, leaning in close. “Good lighting.”

“Fuck you,” Leo says immediately.

“What, can’t take a compliment? Too gay for you?” Steve says slyly. “I thought _I_ was the asshole here, Gordon.”

Scotty’s looking over at them from across the aisle with Parse, both raising their eyebrows.

“No,” Leo says desperately, “Not gay enough,” and grabs Steve’s chin to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek.

“That wasn’t gay,” Steve says immediately, wrenching his face out of Leo’s grip. “Go big or go home, baby.”

“You can’t play gay chicken on the airplane, guys,” Scotty says. “That’s pretty offensive.”

“It’s also fucking _weird_ , you nasties,” JB says, kicking Leo’s chair from behind.

“I dunno,” Parse says, grinning. “I wouldn’t mind. Alex?”

“Definitely not offended,” Fitzy says from a row or two up. “Please, continue.”

Steve narrows his eyes at Leo, daring him onwards. But—

“Well, shucks, Mister Bouchard, you know I think you’re purdy,” Leo drawls, leaning in to pinch Steve’s whiskered cheek. “But I’m a married man, and I can’t go dishonorin’ my bride.”

Everyone listening in laughs and goes back to whatever they were doing before. Steve-O’s smile turns smug, and he mutters something that sounds like he thinks he won that round.

/////

“Can I kiss Steve-O?” Leo asks as soon as Leslie picks up. They’ve just landed in Florida, and this was the soonest he could ask since the wifi was down on the plane.

“ _For fuck’s sake_ ,” she says, groggy with sleep, and hangs up on him.

Four minutes of pouting later, he gets a single text:

**Leslie** 12:45  
one time free pass. send pics

Leo fist pumps and sends back a string of emojis of couples-holding-hands—the ones with a guy and a girl, so that Leslie knows they’re for her.

/////

When he wakes up the next morning, Nora’s still leaving the tail end of her fourth message, so Leo hops in the shower to wake himself up properly. When he gets back into the room, Parse is up, too, giggling at whatever’s on his phone.

“What,” Leo grouses, and Parse starts laughing harder.

Leo wrestles the phone out of Parse’s hands, half sitting on him with one hand firmly holding the towel up around his waist. Twitter’s pulled up, on Leslie’s page, of all things, where she’s retweeted at least seven different pictures of him vigorously making out with Steve the night before.

“Uh-oh,” Leo says, and scrambles away to grab his own phone.

Nora’s voicemail is not kind.

/////

**Leo Gordon** 8:50  
never again

**Leslie** 8:52  
lol this is 100% on you

**Leo Gordon** 8:52  
my tongue went straight in and i didnt  
even try

**Leslie** 8:53  
NASTY

**Leo Gordon** 8:54  
i will never take ur teeth for granted  
again

**Leslie** 8:54  
this is why u wear a mouthguard

**Leo Gordon** 8:55  
understood

/////

Nora might _say_ they’re all in deep shit—Leo and Steve for kissing in public, JB and Harpy for taking pics, Parse and Fitzy for enabling, and the half-dozen others who she can spot cheering in the background of the pictures—but she doesn’t really mean it. It’s not like it’s homophobic, and since no one is cheating on anybody and no one is doing anything against their will, the only people who can complain are people who don’t like to see two dudes kissing.

Which appears to be, unfortunately, most sports commentators currently employed by a major news network.

None of the Panthers seem to give a fuck, so they play the game and lose in overtime. The media that swarms into the locker room afterwards is a different story, though. It really shouldn’t come as a surprise, at this point, but Leo’s still pretty salty at the coverage of Parse and Fitz, so he’s already going in on the defensive before they ask a single question.

“This is the Aces second gay scandal so far this year,” a reporter starts over to Leo’s left, but Steve cuts him off.

“Really? Only the second?” he asks, which is pretty much exactly the opposite of what Nora and her legion of interns have ever told them to do. “Surely we can do better.”

“Um,” the reporter says, fumbling his microphone. “Your time on the ice, has it changed at all?”

“You mean have my minutes gone down since I macked on Gordo?” Steve says, playing up the incredulity. “I dunno, let me ask. Hey, Yates?”

“Eh?” Coach yells from his own scrum.

“You play me less since you think I’m gay?”

“Are ya looking for a no, there?” Coach narrows his eyes. “‘Cause this feels like a trick question, Bouchard.”

“Uh, no,” another reporter says, butting in. “What he’s asking is if the other team tries to exploit this as a weakness.”

Leo slings an arm over Steve’s shoulders and says, “We’re here to play the game, y’know, and we play our strengths on the ice. If other teams want to play whatever they think our weaknesses are, then so be it. We’ll meet ‘em there, and we meet ‘em together, won’t we, Bouche?”

“Sure will, Gordo,” Steve says, wrapping his arm around Leo’s waist. “Next question. You wanna talk about my man’s fluke goal in the second? Because, Gordo, that was _garbage._ No clue how you got it in.”

/////

“Deadspin’s doing a poll on Twitter. Apparently you’re having an affair with Luongo,” Dickie says to Leo.

“And Luongo retweeted it,” Hackman adds. “The other options were Steve-O, Parse, and Logan Couture.”

“Why Couture?” Leo asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked to Couture.”

“Draft class? I don’t fucking know, dude, but I voted for him.”

“Man,” Steve says from beside him, “You finally realize Leslie’s too good for you, eh?”

“Shut up,” Leo says, elbowing him hard. “My marriage is perfect.”

“Your wife is perfect; you’re a fuck up.”

“I thought wives were off-limits in chirping,” Dickie hisses to Sebs, who’s curled up in the window seat.

“Can mention wife, not insult,” Sebs grunts, and pulls his hood over his curls. “Now, _shh_ , sleeping.”

Leo grins at them from across the aisle of the bus. The future of hockey is bright, indeed.

/////

“Yo, Gordo, Parse, what are you up to tonight?” Scotty says two nights later, tearing tape off his calves. Scotty’s always been the quickest to bounce back after a loss, and he’s still under the impression that being in Florida make everything inherently more fun.

“Meeting a friend,” Parse says cryptically, which probably means he and Fitzy are going to find someplace to softly gaze into one another’s eyes over chocolate cheesecake.

“Gordo and I are in,” Steve-O says. “As long as you invite the frat boys.”

Leo _was_ planning to get drunk off the mini bottles of alcohol in his hotel room and jack off while facetiming Leslie, but this might be interesting.

“Oh, you mean V-Squad?” Scotty says.

“What the fuck is ‘ _V-Squad’_?” Steve asks, complete with air quotes.

“It’s the name of the fratty guys’ group chat. It’s probably short for something.”

“I’d put my money on vodka,” Leo says. “Not that it matters; I will never call them that as long as I live.”

“It could be V for vagina,” Parse muses. “They seem like the type.”

“Are you _stereotyping_?” Steve says. “Scotty, you’re an ally—is Parse using a _stereotype_?”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Leo says.

“I bet they couldn’t pick between Vodka Squad and Vagina Squad so they just said V-Squad,” Scotty says. “Also, why the hell do you want to invite them?”

“No reason.”

“No reason.”

/////

“Tequila on the A’s,” Valley says an hour and a half later, elbowing his way further into the booth.

Ahmed Istavalet is from Belarus, and he speaks four languages. Leslie has previously described him as a fuckboy, and try as Leo might to keep out of his players’ personal lives, he really can’t help but agree.

“All drinks on the A’s,” says Perky, slinging an arm over Valley’s shoulders. “Bigger contract, bigger wallet!”

Nolan Perkins has a long distance girlfriend back in Nova Scotia, or where ever the fuck he’s from. He only cuts his hair once a year, right after their season ends, and Leo privately believes that he only keeps his lady friend around because she doesn’t have to see him at this particular stage.

“Sure, but we need tequila now,” Wags says, grinning.

Kyle Wagner’s flow is the perfect foil to Perky’s greasy mop. He’s Canadian, he’s twenty-four, and he’s been engaged four times to three different women. Leo has money on him being the next player to enter the dad club.

“Fuck your tequila,” Roman scoffs, pulling a flask out of nowhere.

Maksim Romanov is pretty scruffy looking. He certainly lives up to the Russian hype as far as drinking goes, but, of the four of them, he’s probably the least likely to try and hook up, by Leo’s judgment. He’s also the least likely to be effortlessly successful at flirting, though, since he has neither language nor looks on his side.

All the rest of the four boys have at least one of those down.

“What are you thinking about?” Scotty asks when Steve goes up to the bar to pay for a tray of shots.

“A pundt square.”

“...What?”

“Where one gene is, like, big ‘H’ for hot and little ‘h’ for fugly, and the other is big ‘E’ for English speaking and little ‘e’ for non-English speaking.”

Scotty looks like he regrets asking. Leo pulls a Sharpie out of his pocket to illustrate on a napkin.

“So, like, ‘HE’ is Wags, ‘He’ is Valley, ‘hE’ is Perky, and ‘he’ is Roman.”

“Fuck, I hate you so much,” Scotty swears, and stands up to go find Steve.

Leslie would think it was funny, Leo reminds himself, and pulls out his phone to send her a picture of his drawing.

/////

Leo’s didn’t realize until tonight why Yates made Steve the other alternate. His hockey might be good, and he might be a veteran, but those two things don’t automatically make a person a good leader.

This is what he reflects on while he watches Steven Bouchard get the four douchebags drunk, compliment their shitty play, ask after their most recent significant others _and_ their mothers by name, and then, somewhere in there, say:

“It’s been a fucking weird season, eh, boys?”

Smooth. Innocuous. Up to interpretation.

Wagner barks a laugh. Claps Steve-O in the shoulder. Leans in, mutters something that Leo can’t hear.

Perkins giggles into his drink.

Romanov snorts and says something low to Istavalet.

“I hope that’s not what you meant,” Leo hears Steve say, low and dangerous. Leo feels a chill rush up his spine.

Scotty’s eyes are wide when Leo meets them, and they both stand up together, right as Steve rises to sock Wags in the jaw.

/////

Parse comes back to the room late, brow furrowed.

“What’s up?” Leo asks, trying to keep his voice level.

“I’m not sure what just happened,” Parse says. “But Perky apologized for calling Alex a fairy and full-on Michael Scott-ed him.”

Leo’s eyebrows shoot up.

“He what now?”

“Tried to kiss Alex to prove he’s not a homophobe. I’m pretty sure he was drunk.”

“Perky was?” As though Leo doesn’t know.

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” Leo leans back against the headboard, casually hiding his glasses behind a pillow. Parse doesn’t need any more material on him, even if it’s just that he’s nearsighted.

Parse says, “He told us that Steve-O talked to him about it.”

“Really?” Leo asks, trying to sound surprised. “Good on him.”

“Perky sort of implied that you and Steve-O are, like, the gay inquisition, or something. Going around vetting people.”

Leo shrugs; there’s no point denying it, really. Parse is quiet for a minute, so eventually Leo has to look up at him again.

He’s looking at Leo like he’s not sure what to think, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his cuffed khakis. He’s wearing a grey sweater Leo doesn’t remember seeing him in before.

“I didn’t know you and Scotty were serious,” Parse says, quiet. “About defending me from the team.”

“Of course we were,” Leo responds. “We’re your friends, Parse. You’re our guy.”

“I didn’t think—” Parse stops, grimaces. “I _really_ didn’t think that Steve-O would be on board.”

“He surprised me, too. He gets the guys in a way I don’t.”

“I think you both get them in different ways. I’m the one they can’t relate to anymore.”

“What the fuck? Parse, where’s this coming from?” Leo asks, sitting up from his mound of pillows.

Parse walks over to his suitcase, turns his back to Leo, probably under the pretense of looking for his pajamas, which are on the chair near Leo’s bed. Leo doesn’t tell him, because he knows how to tell when a dude just doesn’t want to look weak.

“It’s nothing, man,” Parse says. “Just that they—I’m captain because I’m good at the sport, okay? So I’m good in the room and good on the ice, but that doesn’t mean they have to like me when we leave the arena, you know?”

“Bullshit, man,” Leo says, stubborn. “We’re not different people when we put our skates on, dude. We don’t magically forget you’re gay during practice and then forget we look up to you as soon as we hit the parking lot.”

“I know that,” Parse snaps, frustrated. He must give up pretending to look for his PJs, because he stands up and pulls his sweater off over his head. “But that just means I can’t be an effective captain _anywhere_ so long as these guys have their fucking prejudices.”

“Okay, number one, that’s _still_ bullshit,” Leo says. “And number two, even if it wasn’t, how the fuck would that be your fault?”

“I’m not saying it’s my _fault_ , I’m saying that it’s _true_!”

Leo purses his lips. He waits until Parse turns to him, fingers fumbling at his belt buckle, before he speaks.

“I’m not sure why it’s hard for me to convince _you_ , Kent motherfucking Parson, that you’re actually good enough to deserve the C. I have never once in the past five years thought you undeserving or incapable,” Leo says, trying to think of what Leslie would tell him in this moment. Probably something about how he’s not seeing it from Kent’s point of view. “But, fuck, I’m biased. You should talk to someone else about it, honestly—talk to Steve-O, he’s pretty rude. Or your boyfriend; he’s new to the team, you can’t have Stockholm-ed him into worshipping you yet, eh?”

Parse’s face goes funny at that.

“You are dating, right?” Leo checks, just to make sure. “You and Fitzy?”

“Yeah,” Parse sighs, quirking a smile. “Went out for a movie tonight.”

“And it’s good? He’s treating you right?”

“He is, yeah,” Parse says. “It’s nice. Really nice.”

“You’re happy?” Leo presses.

“I am,” Parse answers.

Leo smiles at him helplessly and reaches over to grab Parse’s pajamas off the armchair next to him. He curses as he gets stabbed by something underneath him on the bed, but he still throws the clothes to Parse, and says, “I’m really fucking happy for you, man.”

/////

**Leo Gordon** 12:03  
i fucked up

**Leslie** 12:03  
call nora. im asleep

**Leo Gordon** 12:04  
no i fucked up with parse

**Leslie** 12:05  
what do u mean

**Leo Gordon** 12:07  
i spent so much time worrying ab what  
the team thought of parse and fitz that i  
forgot to check up on the cap himself

**Leslie** 12:08  
oooo big shock, leo is not capable of  
doing everything at once !!!

**Leo Gordon** 12:08  
shut up

**Leslie** 12:10  
but seriously, it’s okay. that’s why  
there’s more than one of u on the team.  
gotta have each others backs. It’s  
alright to rely on other people

**Leo Gordon** 12:10  
#deep

**Leslie** 12:11  
now YOU shut up

**Leo Gordon** 12:11  
i will, but only bc i have to sleep

**Leo Gordon** 12:11  
i love you

**Leslie** 12:12  
i love you too. sweet dreams

**Leo Gordon** 12:12  
**< 3**

/////

**Leo Gordon** 12:36  
oh shit i sat on my glasses

/////

**Leo Gordon** 8:02  
also! forgot to tell you that steve punched  
wags bc wags said smthng nasty  & we  
got kicked out of a bar and we might  
lose our As and parse doesnt know yet

**Leslie** 8:15  
i tried to come up with a reasonable  
response to that and i couldnt

**Leo Gordon** 8:17  
i love you

**Leslie** 8:18  
i love you right back


	2. Charles White :: A Study In Human Attraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles's roommate calls him whipped, and his brother calls him mature, and his girlfriend calls him over Christmas break to tell him that she’s pregnant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is told from the perspective of Charles White, the Aces' starting goaltender. It takes a little while to catch up to Cover My Eyes, but it gets there.
> 
> Tags that apply here are 'unplanned pregnancy' and 'aromantic character.' Specific warnings are in the end notes, since they're spoiler-y.

# Charles White ::   
A Study in the Full,   
Nuanced Spectrum of   
Human Attraction

####  **2016** **  
****WINTER :: LAS VEGAS**

“So, how’d you two get together?” Fitzy asks, gesturing between Charles and his wife.

“She told me her name,” Charles answers, and everyone around the table that hasn’t heard the story before laughs, and everyone that has just rolls their eyes.

That’s kind of a line, though. It may be how he got a date, but the story of how they ended up here is a whole lot longer.

####  **1997** **  
****SUMMER :: MILWAUKEE**

It’s a few weeks before his freshman year of college, and Charles hasn’t ever wanted a second date. It’s not a huge deal, because he’s young and he’s got time to find that forever girl that all his teammates insist their current flings are.

He’s got hockey to worry about, anyway; Ottawa may not be ready for him yet, but he’s sure as hell gonna be ready for them when they call. Between training and playing and starting college, Charles doesn’t have time to keep up with a girlfriend—his single friends all say women drag you down, anyway, say dating isn’t worth it, that it’s better to be free as long as you can.

His older brother James tells him that his own marriage is amazing—it’s being in love with your best friend, that it’s not easy, but it’s worth it. James says it’s a privilege to share Lucia’s burdens, and to have her do the same for him.

Charles tries to imagine telling anyone he knows that he never wants to leave them. He can’t, but he’s young, right? So he’s got time.

####  **1998** **  
****FALL :: MADISON**

By his sophomore year, Charles is having a lot of sex. He hooks up at parties, hooks up in bars when there aren’t any parties, hits on any woman who will come within ten feet of him.

He doesn’t remember who most of them are, and he doesn’t really care, but the girl he wakes up next to two weeks into October asks for his name and he tells her.

She says, “Are you fucking with me?”

“No,” he says, a little thrown off. “I mean, it’s a nickname, my real name is Charles—”

But she’s laughing as she pulls her sweater back on, and she says, “No, fuck, that’s my name too! Chaz, I mean, not Charles.”

“Oh. Well, fuck,” he says, and he grins, because what else is he gonna do? “What’s yours short for?”

“Oh, hell no,” Other-Chaz says, grinning at him. “Take me to dinner, maybe I’ll tell you,”

He sits up, mostly because it’s probably rude to keep lying in bed while your one night stand is asking you out.

Asking you to ask her out. Whatever.

“I can swing that,” he says, easy as anything. It’s his first second date, and it’s not even a second date.

/////

She’s a third year senior; he’s a true sophomore. She wants to be a chemistry teacher; he’s going to play hockey. She’s going to grad school next year; he’s already been drafted by the Senators. She doesn’t ever talk to her parents; he—well, he doesn’t talk to his, either, but that’s because he’s kinda homesick, not because they’re conservative weirdos who named their daughters Chastity and, like, Justice, or something, alright?

When she tells him that’s her name, he laughs, mostly because Chastity is a stupid fucking thing to call an infant, and also because he probably used to be the same type of conservative asshole she’s talking shit about.

He doesn’t tell her that, because he likes hearing her talk, and he doesn’t want to scare her off. She must not notice that he doesn’t have much to say about anything besides sports, that he can talk for hours about Michael Jordan for every minute she spends on the Clintons.

She likes him, but he doesn’t know why.

####  **WINTER :: MADISON**

Charles does not love Chaz. Charles likes hanging out with her, but he gets a wobbly, too-tight feeling in his chest whenever someone mentions the future.

Sex is just as good with her as with random hook-ups—better, maybe, since it’s more frequent and they get used to each others’ bodies, figure out what gets the other person off.

Going out to dinner is just as good with her as with his buddies. It might be better, too, because she tells him about her family and her hometown and asks him about his. She cares about more than just hockey and sex and getting wasted, which is definitely different than Charles’s buddies, but not exactly a trait exclusive to her.

One way or another, dating her is _nice_. Just nice. Not the kind of life-altering, sing-it-from-the-rooftops incredible that he’s kind of holding out for. But it is fun. It’s also probably good for him, since his grades start to improve and he’s sleeping more regular hours, can remember more of the time he spends awake. That’s probably not a coincidence.

His roommate calls him whipped, and his brother calls him mature, and Chaz calls him over Christmas break to tell him that she’s pregnant.

**WINTER :: MILWAUKEE**

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, and he knows he must look pitiful because his mom doesn’t even call him out for cursing.

She’s angry, but she’s also trying to be supportive. He’s not sure she would be trying at all if there wasn’t a grandchild involved, but he’s not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he says, probably for the thirtieth time. He drops his head into his hands.m“We were being safe! We—we never did anything without—fuck, I didn’t want this.”

His mom purses her lips and stares out the kitchen window.

“She’s definitely going to keep it?”

“Yes, that’s—she said that’s non-negotiable, and I’d never—I could never ask her to.”

They sit there for awhile longer before his mom says, “Did Chastity cheat on you?”

“ _No,_ ” he says, because she wouldn’t. She’s in love with him, he knows that, even if he doesn't know why. She’s pretty much told him.

####  **1999** **  
****WINTER :: MADISON**

When he gets back to school early, he immediately dumps his luggage in his dorm room and walks through the billowing snow to her apartment.

He doesn’t know what to say when the door opens, but it’s okay, because she wraps him in a hug and he returns it. He thinks maybe he should be the one comforting her, since it’s her that’s apparently carrying— _shit_. Carrying their _kid_.

If she realizes he’s choking up, she doesn’t call him out on it. She just moves into the cramped living area and sits down on the couch, gesturing for him to join her.

Charles is shaking, and there’s no way she doesn’t notice _that_ , but she runs her hand over his back and waits him out.

He knows they have to talk about this, that there are all sorts of things they need to discuss, that this is a _big fucking deal_ and they could be _parents_ and he doesn't even love her.

She knows they have to talk, too, because she says, “Let’s wait until tomorrow,” and arranges herself beside him and around him and _so so close_ , and kisses his neck in a way that says _I’m here, we’re together, we’re gonna be okay._ And he buries his face in her frizzy dark hair and breathes in and out, in and out.

In the morning, she says, “My parents will disown me if we don’t get married,” and Charles says, “Shit,” and she looks likes she’s going to cry.

“Shit,” he repeats, more softly this time, reaching for her hand.

She flinches back, just a little, and he drops his hand between them.

“I know you don’t… feel like I do,” she says, curling into the far corner of the couch.

 _How do you feel?_ he wants to ask, but the words are stuck in his throat. _And how do you know?_

“I don’t feel that way about anyone else,” he says, and he knows it’s inadequate, so he adds, “And I do… I do love you. I know it’s not what you want, but you’re my best friend.”

She nods, slowly. They sit there for a long time after.

They don’t officially break up, but they don’t talk about engagement again, either.

He tries not to think about it, which is another way of saying he lies awake thinking about it every night. Every night he doesn’t say he loves her when they kiss goodnight, every day he ends a phone call abruptly, he’s hit by another wave of guilt. Because she’s giving up her parents for this kid, maybe a little bit for him, too, and he could stop that from happening if he would just grow a pair.

####  **WINTER :: MINNEAPOLIS**

Charles is in Minnesota for a game when Chaz goes to get the first ultrasound. He knows you don’t get to find out the gender for, like, another ten weeks, but he calls her when they get back to the hotel, anyway.

His road roommate, Brooks, raises his eyebrows when Charles keeps dialing the hotel phone after it’s gone to voicemail twice.

Finally, she picks up.

“Hey,” he says, and Brooks’ eyebrows only go higher.

“You dialed three times to say _hey_?” he says, incredulous, but Charles shoves his face away and tries to hear what Chastity is saying.

“— _she put it up on the screen and it’s—it’s twins; we’re having fucking_ twins,  _Charlie, fuck._ ”

“Twins?” he says, voice catching. Brooks stops trying to wrestle with him.

“ _Yeah_.”

“I. Fuck.”

“ _I know._ ”

“What the fuck?” Brooks says, loud enough that Chastity can probably hear.

“We’re having _twins_ , Brooks,” Charles says, and he’s almost surprised to hear how happy his voice sounds.

“Uh—”

“ _I’m glad you called; I’m sorry I missed it the first few times_.”

“It’s okay.”

“ _I should sleep_.”

“Yeah. Sleep well. _Twins_. Fuck.”

“ _You too. See you soon_.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up. He grins to himself, biting his lip. When he finally glances up, Brooks is looking like he just got repeatedly slammed into the boards head first.

“What the fuck,” Brooks says, and it’s not a question.

“Um, so, yeah, Chastity is pregnant,” Charles says, giving it a little jazz hands motion. He feels stupid doing that, so he stops. “Surprise?”

Brooks stares dumbly for a minute more before he starts giggling.

“I know it’s fucked up,” he starts, in between fits of laughter, “but literally all I can think is that her parents sure picked the wrong name on that one.”

“Oh, shut up,” Charles says, rolling his eyes. “Her sisters’ names are fucking Justice and Honor, okay? Their whole family is fucked.”

####  **WINTER :: MADISON**

His agent tells him to put a ring on it, tells him the Sens want him next season and he needs to keep his image up, that he’s lucky no one’s on his case yet.

Charles panics.

Brooks finds him in a bar, drunk off his ass like he hasn’t been since he and Chastity started going steady months ago. Charles cries into his teammate’s douchey Hawaiian-print shirt and tells him everything.

Brooks lets him cry for awhile before he drags Charles out of the booth.

“Look, dog,” Brooks says, sighing, “You’re gonna be a dad, whether you wanna be a husband or not. And believe me, I know fuck-all about relationships, but it’s shitty of you to keep treating this like a casual fling when you’re gonna be seeing this chick for the next eighteen years, okay?”

He dumps Charles into the passenger seat of his car, stands up, pauses, sighs, and squats back down to buckle him in.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this now, since you’re obviously fucked beyond belief, but you need to nut up and talk to your girl about this, okay?”

Brooks drives Charles back to Chastity’s apartment. She’s not there; but her roommate Jenni is, and she likes Charles enough that she situates him on the couch with a couple of bottles of water and a small trashcan.

/////

When Charles wakes up in the morning, Brooks is still there; he’s got a couple hickies and he’s helping Jenni make eggs. Charles would roll his eyes if they didn’t hurt so bad.

He drags himself off the couch and into the bathroom for a piss. He splashes water on his face, drinks a couple handfuls from the tap, and then goes to see Chaz. She’s sleeping on her side, arms wrapped tight around an extra pillow.

Charles feels something in his chest tighten, and his eyes are wet when he lowers himself down next to her.

“I won’t leave you,” he murmurs, and kisses her forehead. “I know I’m a mess, but I won’t make you be alone.”

####  **SPRING :: MADISON**

Chastity graduates, swelling stomach hidden under black robes, and Charles gets his family to drive up for it even though they’ve never met her.

They had finally talked about getting engaged again, and they had both cried, but somehow they were both on the same page. Chastity’s family doesn’t show up for the ceremony, but Donnagail White carefully wraps Chaz up in her arms and tells her she looks beautiful, and Timothy White smiles at her with little wrinkles around his eyes, and James White and Lucia White say congratulations and how glad they are that she’s with them and somewhere in there—

“Welcome to the family, dear,” Donnagail whispers.

Chastity buries her face in Charles’s badly-fitted sport coat, and when she pulls back, her eyes are wet and her whole face is taken up by a smile.

####  **2000** **  
****SUMMER :: OTTAWA**

It’s his third camp in Ottawa, and Charles is killing it.

He knows Martin likes what he sees. He’s not starter material, not yet, but he can feel it in his chest, can see it in the coach’s eyes. Everything’s building up inside him, pride and satisfaction and more than a little bit of relief, all strong enough to show on his face and in his movements. Because he did it, he’s here, he’s gonna make the show—and then—

“Heard you knocked up some girl back at school,” Fortin says, a little too loud, and he spits on the locker room floor.

Charles looks up at him, sees the tension in Fortin’s limbs, the discarded blocker and glove, and he knows this isn’t about him. This is about job security, and the fact that Fortin might have just lost his.

Charles looks back down and keeps pulling tape off his socks.

“Got a little too excited in the NCAA, didn’t ya?” Fortin prods. “Think you’re some hotshot, keeping undrafted kids out of your crease. Your girl, she thinks you’re really something, eh?”

“Forts, _tais-toi_ ,” Lalime says, and Fortin laughs.

“Won’t she be proud when she sees you sit on the bench sixty games a year? Won’t your kid be proud?”

“ _Forts_ ,” Lalime says again, a warning his voice.

“Maybe learn to use a condom, White, and then you won’t have to drag some whore around the league, won’t have to pay child support—”

“Fortin,” Coach Martin says from the doorway. “My office.”

Charles unclenches his hands from where they’re white-knuckled and shaking around wads of used tape as Fortin leaves. He glances up, torn between righteous anger and mortifying fear, unsure of what to do.

Lilame offers him a sympathetic smile and says, “You’re going to be a dad?”

Charles feels a whole lot of eyes trained on him as he forces a smile.

“Twins,” he offers. “Two girls, due in a month.”

####  **FALL :: OTTAWA**

Charles doesn’t really know what anyone wants him to do.

Or—well. Okay. He knows his agent wants him to put a ring on it. He knows his parents want him to take responsibility for his kids. He knows Brooks wants him to do what will make him happy.

But he doesn’t know what Chastity wants from him.

He doesn’t want to be possessive, and he _really_ doesn’t want her to give up her dreams so that he can pursue his. He doesn’t want her to feel obligated to move in with him, or to keep dating him just because they’re co-parenting.

He tries to say all of that to her over the phone while he’s in Ottawa and she’s staying with his parents in Milwaukee since she can’t fly, hoping that she’ll tell him what she wants besides a less fucked up pseudo-boyfriend.

She doesn’t, though. She just says she wants two healthy babies.

“ _And Charles_?” She says just before they hang up. “ _I want our girls will know both their parents. I’m going to bring them to you as soon as I can_.”

“Okay,” he says. “I want that, too.”

####  **2001** **  
****WINTER :: OTTAWA**

“I thought you and your girlfriend had a deal?”

Charles cracks an eye open to look at Chris, who’s looking at him with polite confusion, as though he didn’t just ask why Charles isn’t currently banging some rando in the bar bathroom.

“We do,” he says, and the kid looks even more confused.

“Then why aren’t you—”

“Buddy,” Charles starts, sitting up from where he’s slouched over in the booth, “I don’t know why you know about this in the first place, but I made that deal with Chaz because I want her to feel free to get some while I’m gone for two weeks at a time, not because I can’t do without.”

“Oh,” Chris says, looking a little shocked. “Does she know you don’t cash in?”

“Nope,” Charles says, settling back into the booth. “Don’t want her to feel guilty about it.”

“Oh.”

Charles waits a few moments, then opens his eyes again to see the kid still looking at him strangely.

“What?”

“So you don’t mind that your girl is having sex with other guys?”

“She’s not really ‘my girl,’ bud,” Charles says, sighing. “So it doesn’t matter how I feel.”

“You’re not serious? I thought you had kids!”

“Sometimes _love_ and _marriage_ don’t precede the baby carriage, champ. Now go get me a refill."

/////

But that's not the whole truth, either. He  _has_ cashed in on their deal. 

The first time he did, he'd gone home with a woman named Jeannie. The sex was good, but every time she moved above him, all he could see was the smoothness of her stomach where she ought to have a long pink scar, and all he could hear was the way she said his full name. 

It was the same with Heather and her lack of freckles, and with Sara and her smooth blonde hair. 

When he wakes up in a bed with Fiona, he looks over at her, sleeping peacefully beside him, lovely and sweet. He tries to imagine kissing her over a table at a fancy restaurant, and taking her home to his daughters, and he just—he doesn't know. He doesn't know what he wants, but it isn't this.

####  **2003** **  
****SUMMER :: OTTAWA**

“No,” Charles says, voice flat.

“ _Uh, not up to you, buddy.”_

“I don't give a fuck, man! Work something out.”

“ _Look, Charles, I know it sucks that Ottawa chose not to protect you, but your name got called! Look at the bright side, you’ll probably get a shot at starting_ —”

“Look, _Harold_ , I literally do not give a _motherfuck_ about the position _or_ about the money. I’m not taking my kids to some goddamn whore-ridden city in the middle of a desert, okay?”

“ _I know it’s hard to think about leaving the Sens,_ ” Harold says, voice annoyingly placating, “ _Especially coming off the season you boys just had, but_ —”

“League _leaders_ ,” Charles grits out. “This is gonna be our _year_.”

Harold huffs out a sigh over the phone.

“ _Think about it. Talk to your girlfriend. Hell, talk to your kids. I’ll call you back tomorrow, Charles. I’m serious about this being a good move_.”

####  **SUMMER :: MILWAUKEE**

“Seems kind of risky,” Lucia says.

“That’s a pretty substantial pay cut,” James says. “Maybe not percentage-wise, but compared to what _I_ make—”

“It’s awfully far,” Mom says. “Even by plane, that’s far, honey.”

“Your mother’s right,” Dad says. “And it’s Las Vegas, too.”

“How is this even a question?” James says. “It’s Vegas. I can see Providence or Seattle, but _Vegas_?”

His tiny nephew just screams, which upsets his daughters, who also start to scream.

“What do you think?” he says to Chaz, after his family has exhausted their list of reasons to call Harold back and ask him to work a minor miracle.

“Well,” she says, drawing it out, and he doesn’t like this, but he likes the way she’s smiling.

It turns out that Chastity is not a big fan of winter.

####  **FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

Their new house is _big._ Not that the one in Ottawa wasn’t huge compared to the house Charles grew up in, but _damn._ A third story, two decks, a little kitchenette in the basement next to the guest suite.

The girls get their own bedrooms, but after Laney sneaks into Olivia’s room three nights in a row, Charles goes out and buys a set of bunk beds.

The night he gets them settled in their shared bedroom, reading them a few stories and kissing each of them on their foreheads, he goes downstairs to find Chastity sitting at the breakfast bar, staring down at her hands.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

She smiles up at him, tired and worn and also—also _sad_ , underlying everything.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, frowning.

“I just… should I even be here?”

“What do you mean? Where else would you be?”

“Exactly,” she says, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t have anywhere else I _should_ be, but that’s no reason for me to take up all your time.”

“You’re not—Chaz, you’re not taking up my time, okay? I need you here with me, I can’t do this without you.”

“Other parents make it work, you know,” she says, and he tries to keep himself from flinching.

“Do you… want to move out?”

“If it was better for you that way—”

“How could it possibly be _better_ —”

“—you have to know that I’d do it—”

“Stop, stop!” Charles says, reaching for her hands where they’re clenched in her lap. “I know I’m—not good enough for you, that I don’t... feel for you the way you deserve to be felt for, or whatever, but—you’ve gotta know that I want you here. And not just because you’re an amazing mom, or because I like having you— _just_ you—in my bed. You’re my best friend, Chaz. I don’t _want_ to do this without you.”

He’s breathing heavily when he’s done, and she’s finally looking at him for the first time since the conversation started.

“One of the trainers has kids in high school,” she says, after way too long a silence.

“...Okay?”

“They’ve offered to babysit tomorrow,” she continues, rolling her eyes. “It’s too late to break in the new mattress tonight, okay? But _tomorrow_. From four to eight.”

“ _Oh_. Yes, good. I’ll, uh, clear my schedule.”

/////

As soon as he’s seen the girls out the door, Charles practically sprints up to the master bedroom and barrels into Chastity.

She shrieks, then dissolves into laughter. He wants to plant kisses all along her neck and shoulder, but he’s not sure what the game plan it here, not really.

“We don’t actually have any clean sheets we can put on the bed if we mess these up,” she says, and he groans, put-upon.

“Can we just say fuck it and do it anyway?”

“No, Charlie, I’ve got a better idea.”

Her idea is to try out the jacuzzi tub in the master bath, which is fine by Charles, so they split up to find wine and candles and towels and the twins’ bubble bath.

It’s a foamy pink mess, and the stacks of partially-emptied boxes should probably take away from the atmosphere, but the water is warm and Charles is with his best friend, naked in a huge bathtub in Las fucking Vegas.

He pours wine into one of the red Solo cups that they’ve been using while they wait for the second moving truck to arrive with their dishes, passes it to Chastity before pouring a second for himself.

She’s slouched down in the water, bubbles up to her chin and hair pulled into a bun high on her head, and he swears he doesn’t mean to say it, hasn’t thought about it, but when she says, “I think this is going to be good for us,” he responds, “I love you.”

She looks at him, soft and familiar.

“I know, Charles.”

“No, I mean,” he sets his cup down and searches for her hands in the foam. “How do I say this? I've never really _wanted_ anyone before, not the way you're s'posed to. But I want this. I want this with you.”

“You have it, really,” she says, but he doesn't think she understands.

"I don't understand dating at all," he starts, pulling her towards him, "And I'm pretty sure you've noticed that at this point."

"I have, yes."

"Right, so, up until I met you, every time I'd been on a date was terrifying, okay? Actually, I was still scared when I was dating you, too, because to me, dating was just contract negotiations with  _forever_ and  _everything_ thrown in, and those aren't things I really wanted to think about. I'm shit at wooing people, and I've always felt like I was faking it when I tried. 

"So, when you got pregnant—okay, yeah, not gonna lie, I freaked out. But it was nice, kind of, to have something out of my control decide forever for us. There was no endgame anymore, no negotiations, just keeping you and the girls happy and healthy.

"And I can do that, you know. I know I'm not perfect. I know how much you gave up, between your family and your friends and your home just to follow me across the continent. I can't promise that I'm going to get butterflies, but spending forever with you doesn't scare me anymore. I don't want anything else, and I don't want anyone else. Just toilet training, preschool hunting, and occassional bathtub sex with my best friend." 

 

####  **2004** **  
****SUMMER :: MILWAUKEE**

They get married at his parents’ church after their first season in Vegas.

Charles had insisted it wasn’t necessary, that he was fine with what they had, that his public image didn’t matter to him. Chastity had said the same, that she was fine not getting married, too, that she didn’t want to rope him into anything.

It was that, really, that made him propose.

Because he’s still scared, sure— _as long as we both shall live_ is hopefully gonna be a long fucking time—but he can’t bear to think that Chastity doesn’t know how much he wants her around.

/////

The day before the wedding, an SUV pulls up into the driveway and a familiar-looking young woman gets out, glancing down at a slip of paper that she tucks into her pocket.

“Hello?” Charles says from where he’s sitting on the porch, taking a break from the clamor inside. “Can I help you?”

“I'm looking for Chaz Johnson,” the woman says. "Some guy called me and said she'd be here."

"She's here," Charles says, standing. "Sorry, who did you talk to?"

"Tim White. He said she's marrying his son."

"Yeah, that's—that's me, I'm Charles White," he says, holding out a hand.

"Good to meet you, Charles White," the woman says, and reaches out to shake. "I'm Honor Johnson."

 

/////

The wedding is—it’s great, really great, and Charles is so fucking glad someone else is taking photos because he doesn’t look away from Chaz the whole night.

There are a lot of people: the whole Aces roster and the guys from Ottawa, too, most of Charles’ extended family, Brooks and Jenni and other people from their college days, some friends from high school, and Honor, who walks Chastity down the aisle and sits with Charles's parents in the pews.

Laney and Liv sit with them up at the long table for the reception, both with cloth napkins draped over their white flower girl dresses and cake smeared across their chubby cheeks. They join Charles and Chastity for the second dance, one in each of their parents’ arms, and Charles cries so hard on the dance floor that he has to stop moving because he can’t see.

One of the rookies from Vegas snatches the garter out of the air, and it sounds like half the NHL is catcalling when Jeff has to dance with Charles’s thirty-two-year-old cousin Haley, who caught the bouquet.

####  **2005** **  
****FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

“So,” Chastity says, “We’ve got two girls in first grade, and one rookie in the basement. You wanna get a fourth?”

Charles barks a laugh from where he’s reading in their bed.

“Just like that?”

“Well, the decision part, yeah,” Chaz says, crawling up next to him. “Maybe not the rest of it.”

“You still feeling adoption?”

“Hell yeah,” she says, grinning.

He plants a kiss on her forehead.

“I’ll call Harold on our next day off, see what he’s got to say.”

####  **2006** **  
****SUMMER :: LAS VEGAS**

The process takes longer than Charles is really prepared for. Steve-O moves out over the summer, gets an apartment with one of the other guys on the team, which means Charles has to actually hire sitters again, but it also means he has to do less “Mr. Steven sometimes brings his friends home very late” damage control with the twins, which is a plus.

####  **2007** **  
****SUMMER :: MILWAUKEE**

They got her. Somehow, they got little Asay, and she’s so small, and she’s actually in his arms, and her head fits in the palm of his hand, and Charles cries.

He’s pretty sure there’s a scrapbook's worth of pictures of him crying happy tears at this point.

####  **2009** **  
****SPRING :: LAS VEGAS**

**Gordo** 11:23  
zimmermann jr overdosed

 **Charles White** 11:24  
what?

 **Gordo** 11:24  
call me

/////

“He _what_?”

“ _Fucking ODed_.”

“On what, though?”

“ _Who the fuck knows? I’ve told you everything I heard_.”

“Fuck, Gordo.”

“ _I know, man. I know_.”

/////

“So—Parson?”

“ _Yeah. Parson_.”

/////

Charles is the captain. Off-ice only, since he’s a goalie, but Parson’s not on the ice. So Charles calls.

The conversation is great, on the surface. Like, with no context, it would be fine. It’d be perfect, because this kid is pleasant and charming, asking good questions about the Aces and his place on the team.

But Kent Parson’s best friend just had a brush with death, and Charles is a little worried about just how okay he seems to be doing.

“It was your first conversation with him,” Chastity says when they turn out the light. “He’ll open up to you if he needs to. But don’t beat yourself up if you’re not going to be that person for him—just make sure he _has_ a person at all, you know?”

####  **2011** **  
****FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

Okay, now Parse is the captain. It’s a weight off Charles’s shoulders.

####  **2013** **  
****FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

This year’s resident basement rookie isn’t a rookie. His name is Dallas Harper, just traded to them by the Schooners, and he’s the suavest guy that Charles has ever met. He’s 20, which—fuck, he’s still almost 15 fucking years younger than Charles.

“I could be his dad,” Charles says one night, voice full of awe. “Like, I could be his father.”

Chastity snorts and sits down on the edge of the tub, rubbing a hand through his hair.

“What, were you already messing around at 13?”

“No! I just. _Wow._ I got old. When did that happen?”

“Around the time you started taking epsom salt baths twice a week, babe.”

Charles grimaces and shifts in the water.

“Touché.”

/////

Harpy doesn’t hang around the house much at first, just goes out with the guys all the time. Or, okay, just one guy. He and Jon Bertucci, their third line center, are pretty much inseparable.

Charles doesn’t want to read too much into things, but he’s feeling pretty fatherly, so he tries to ease into the subject a couple times, make some meaningful eye contact.

Like when he says, “You know we don’t mind if you bring Bert around, right, Harpy?” and Harpy looks up from their dinner, flashing him a blinding white grin to say, “Thanks, Chaz. I know.”

He chews thoughtfully for a second, swallows, then says, “Also, we’re calling him JB now.”

“Yeah?” Chastity says. “Why?”

Harpy snorts and drags out his iPhone.

“Look at this picture of him in juniors. Straight up Bieber-do, no question.”

/////

Later, he and Liv are sorting clean laundry, and there are some boxers that definitely don’t belong on _Charles’s_ ass, but they’re way too big for Harpy, too. He drops them off downstairs with the rest of Harpy’s things, anyway, and JB thanks Charles for doing his chores at free skate the next day.

“I mean, I’m not gonna pimp out our manual laborers, but you’re welcome to use the washing machine anytime,” Charles says, and JB laughs and slaps his shoulder.

/////

The real kicker is when Charles is out back watching Asay play in a sprinkler. He’s icing his ankle, but it might as well be his whole damn leg, so he can’t join her. Laney plops down on the lawn chair next to him, opening up _Fahrenheit 451_ to read for class.

They’ve been out there maybe five minutes when JB sprints around the side of the house, looking over his shoulder and laughing. He doesn’t notice the wet grass, and completely wipes out with a loud _splat_ , which makes Asay shriek with laughter and run over to grab his hand.

“Play with me!” she yells, and JB laughs and allows himself to be pulled up.

Harpy rounds the corner a little later, also running, but he’s looking forward so he doesn’t fall. He just slides to a stop and grins at the scene in front of him: JB swinging Asay into the spray by her arms, laughing as she shrieks for him to swing her higher.

Charles looks over at Laney, ready to laugh at them with her, but Laney’s frozen, eyes darting back and forth between the two guys.

“Honey?” he says, voice low. “Everything okay?”

She jumps and looks at him guiltily.

“Yeah,” she says, “Fine.”

He raises an eyebrow. He hopes to God his kid’s got enough sense not to go crushing on a pro athlete. He knows these guys way too well to be cool with that.

She squirms a little, looking shifty.

“Do you think they’re dating?” she finally asks, avoiding eye contact.

He grins at her. “Not sure, kiddo. I wouldn’t be too surprised.”

Her eyes snap up to his, and she chokes out, “You’re okay with that?”

He’s a little surprised, but hides it, tries to just smile when he says, “Yeah, of course,” and then looks back to Asay, who’s now climbing Harpy like he's her personal jungle gym.

/////

Finally, he locates his missing balls and just goes for it. He goes downstairs when he knows Harpy is alone, only to find him doing sit-ups and skyping JB at the same time.

Pointing out that they literally live fifteen minutes apart only earns him a glare, so Charles sits down on the bed to wait them out. He joins the conversation whenever he understands the words that they’re saying, since these two have a language made up entirely of inside jokes.

When Harpy cuts the call, he raises his eyebrows at Charles and waits.

“This is a bit of reach,” Charles prefaces, “but it’d be weird not to ask at this point. Are you and Jon actually dating, or am I being an idiot?”

Harpy pretty much falls over laughing, winces because he just wrapped up a core workout, and then laughs some more.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” Charles sighs.

“Yeah, _fuck_ no. Me and JB go way back, you know? We grew up together, played together up until juniors, all that. He’s like my _brother_.”

“Alright, alright, fine. My bad. Just trying to be fuckin’ supportive, don’t mind me.”

/////

Harpy jokes about it at the dinner table that night, and Charles rolls his eyes and goes along with it, because sure, he was being dumb, apparently, but it was all well-intentioned.

Laney’s smiling into her plate of spaghetti, biting her lip. Liv’s grinning too, and keeps elbowing her. Charles narrows his eyes at Liv, but she just shakes her head at him and smiles like it’s supposed to mean something.

/////

Laney comes and finds him the next day.

“Hey, sweetie,” he says, slowing down on the stationary bike.

“Hey, dad.”

“Is something up?”

She crosses her arms over her chest and hikes her shoulders up.

“Homecoming is next week.”

He nods. He knows he’s not around all the time, but he does keep up with stuff.

“And, um. I got asked? And I said yes.”

“Yeah?” He says, grinning. “Who by?”

“Kayla.”

Alright. Okay. That’s fine. Supportive-dad-mode now, freak out later.

“Kayla who?”

Laney looks up at him, appearing really, really small in her oversized Harper jersey she got for Christmas.

“Kayla Washburn, the one who—we’re on the lacrosse team together? She came over for my birthday, and I went to her house a couple times last year,” Laney says, all in a rush. “We have biology together, and she’s really cool. I—I told mom, and she said it’s okay.”

“Don’t breathe through your nose for a second,” Charles says, stepping off the bike and gathering his daughter up in his sweaty arms. He definitely smells foul, but it’s Laney’s fault for needing hugs when he’s exercising. “You know I love you, right? And I’ll love you no matter what?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out, “Yeah, Dad, I know that now.”

That hurts his heart in ways he can’t process, so he just closes his eyes and presses his lips against her forehead.

They stay like that for so long he starts to cramp, but honestly? He couldn’t care less.

####  **2014** **  
****SUMMER :: MILWAUKEE**

They win. They fucking win the fucking Stanley Cup, and he schedules his cup day for his anniversary and takes Chastity and Laney and Liv and Asay to Milwaukee with him, and they pose for intentionally weird family photos, all wearing his jersey on their backs.

In Charles’s second favorite, he’s got Asay on his shoulders, and the twins at his sides. Asay is bellowing something at the camera, both hands in the air.

In Charles’s actual favorite, he’s dipping Chastity, trying to kiss her, but the camera went off right when she was laughing, so he’s also pretending to drop her while making a weird duck face.

He gets Liv to put both up on his Twitter.

####  **2015** **  
****FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

Chastity’s always liked to have an open home. Charles thinks maybe her parents were like that, too, which is confusing to him, that people could be so hospitable to strangers and yet disown their daughter.

One way or another, the house in Vegas has got space to spare, even now that the twins don’t share a bedroom.

So when one of the least talented D-men goes down before the season really has time to start, Chastity tells Charles to put him in the spare room.

“He’s living with a twenty-one-year-old roommate, Charlie,” she says, chiding, as though he would ever think to disagree with her. “That boy’s going to die without someone to look after him.”

After some initial reluctance followed by careful negotiation, Derrick Hackman agrees to move into their basement.

The blinds stay drawn upstairs so that he can eat with them and lie around on their couch, and all the girls stay quiet when they’re home. Hackman is a little skittish around them, since he’s probably forgotten how to interact with people that don’t smell like a locker room, but he’s even more restless when they’re not present.

The barriers are broken when Laney tosses him an Xbox controller and says, “NHL15?”

“Um,” he says, eyes wide, “I’m not supposed to look at screens.”

“Cool,” Laney says, smacking her gum and plopping down next to him on the couch. “Do it without looking. I’m gonna kick your butt.”

She does, and she cellies at medium volume so as not to hurt his head.

“You’ll have to come back when you’re at 100%,” Liv says from the armchair she’s perched on, and Hackman agrees.

/////

No sooner has Hackman moved back out than Charles’s knee collapses in the middle of a game, traumatizing one of the rookies and fucking up their record. So trades happen, and Jeff leaves, and Charles gets hyped for his third surgery on his right leg.

The new goalie, Fitzy, is good. Good enough to threaten Charles’s job security, honestly. If Charles were younger, he would give a couple of fucks, but he’s 37 with a shitty knee, and he and Chastity have already agreed they’re not leaving Vegas when his contract ends two years from now. Retirement has never felt quite this real. Maybe he’ll coach, or scout, or be a full-time stay-at-home dad. Maybe he’ll go strip for one of the sleazier bars downtown.

Chastity hits him with a pillow when he suggests the last one.

“You can’t deny the world access to this bangin’ bod!” he protests. “I’d be doing the Lord’s work!”

She leans over to kiss him, probably because she doesn’t have a response, meaning his logic is flawless. Charles fist pumps behind her back.

####  **2016** **  
****WINTER :: LAS VEGAS**

Uh, yeah, so. Charles was wrong about JB and Harpy. And being wrong about them apparently made his daughter feel comfortable enough to come out to him, which was cool. So he’s gotten himself educated on LGBT+ shit and started paying attention to the news, and to his language, and his mindset.

He knows that, statistically, at least one of the guys he plays with isn’t entirely heterosexual. If he had to guess, he’d’ve said it’s one of Hackman’s roommates, Mäkinen or Richards. Or maybe Hackman himself? There’s no way all three of those boys are straight.

But, uh. It’s a good thing no one asks him to guess. Because it’s Parse. The Mystery Gay is Parse, and Parse is also, like, fucked up. Has been for awhile, apparently.

Chastity tells Charles not to feel guilty about that—but that’s a lot to fucking ask from a guy, so, in his guilt, Charles goes to Nora and asks what he can do. And she asks how close he is to the situation, which is probably a professional way of asking if he’s ever put his dick in a dude.

“I’m straight,” he says, “But my daughter isn’t, so I’ve been pretty intentional about learning up on this shit.”

She nods, sharp, and asks him to do the press release with Kent and Alex.

“Yeah, of c—wait, Alex? Like, Fitzy? What’s this got to do with him?”

“Oh,” Nora says, surprised, like she’s forgotten that regular people have limited capacities for understanding, “Alex is gay, too, apparently. This is a bit of preemptive strike.”

There were _two_ Mystery Gays. Charles didn’t notice _either_ of them. _Nice_.

/////

The press conference goes well, relatively speaking. Charles invites Fitzy and Parse over for a late dinner; Parse begs off, but Fitzy shrugs and walks with him to his car.

He shoots Chastity a quick text before they head over, just so she knows to prepare extra if she’s already got something planned.

“You doing okay, Fitzy?” Charles asks, backing out of his parking space.

Fitzy lets out a long breath before he says, “Yeah, I think I am. _Shit_ , Chaz. Big day, you know?”

“I think I might,” Charles says. “You’re doing a good thing here. Brave thing, good thing.”

“I hope so,” Fitzy says. “I mean, I’m doing it for me, really, but I wouldn’t come out if it wasn’t good for Kent, you know? Or for sports in general, I guess.”

“Sure,” Charles says, humming. “I hope my ‘brothers’ comment wasn’t a little, uh. Weird for you.”

“What?”

“How I said you and Parse are brothers, but you’re totally boning.”

“We’re not—no, fuck—” Fitzy splutters, and Charles laughs, because he might be supportive, but he’s also a dick.

“Sorry, sorry,” Charles says. “I just figure that’s gotta be _way_ to convenient to pass up.”

“Well, uh, first off, _no_ ,” Fitzy says, still sounding embarrassed. Charles wishes he could see how bad he was blushing, but it’s too dark outside. “Second, uh. He. Turned me down. For a date, not for sex. But I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘no’ there, too.”

“Huh,” Charles says. “Wouldn’t have guessed; the whole White residence agrees that you look like you’re straight out of an L.L.Bean catalog. Sorry, dude.”

“Uh,” Fitzy says, “It’s fine?”

“Awesome. Have you met my family?” Charles asks.

Fitzy grins at the change of subject.

“Only your wife. You’ve got kids, right?”

“Yeah, Liv and Laney are twins, they’re sixteen; Asay’s nine. Oh, and Trudy’s living in the basement right now.”

“...Who?”

“Troy Di Pasqua? Forward, bumped up while Hammer’s out?”

“Oh,” Fitz pauses, then says, “I don’t know who that is.”

“It’s okay,” Charles assures him, “We’ve had a busy few days. Trudy literally just came up five days ago; he’s a pretty good kid.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah; he mostly just looks terrified whenever Olivia flirts with him. Like he thinks I’m gonna cut his head off if he makes a move or something. Which I am, don’t get me wrong, but it’s making life interesting, at least.”

/////

“So, how’d you two get together?” Fitzy asks midway through the meal, gesturing between Charles and Chaz.

“She told me her name,” Charles answers, and Fitzy and Trudy laugh, and each member of Charles’s beautiful, _beautiful_ family just rolls their eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings specific to this chapter include:  
> \- unplanned pregnancy  
> \- brief suggestion of terminating the pregnancy  
> \- teenager comes out and everything is fine!  
> \- an imperfect narrator's (brief) commentary on sensitive subjects like sex workers, mental illness, overdoses, and Parse's forced outing
> 
> The story also revolves around a character who is most likely aromantic, though he never applies that term to himself. It's obviously not meant to represent all aro people, just the specific experiences of one person and his relationships.
> 
> Also, there are some real people in this fic, but if the person is an asshole, then they're an OC.


	3. Elliott Anderson :: You Weren't the Only One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliott isn’t a perfect guy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is told from the perspective of Elliott Anderson, Alex's ex. It takes place in the spring just after Cover My Eyes.
> 
> Tags that apply are 'existential bullshit' and 'friendship.' Just to be safe, you should knows that this story also mentions spiders, death, and recreational drug usage, though none of these things are featured.

# Elliott Anderson ::  
You Weren't the Only One  
Who Thought of Us That Way

Elliott isn’t a perfect guy.

He’s kinda fucked up, you know? Probably has commitment issues. If words don’t mean what they mean, and _probably_ is a synonym for _definitely._

And, like—it’d be kinda nice if any of his flaws could be blamed on all the stuff he was born into. Like, the whole bisexual thing. Maybe if his parents were more fucked up about the  _not straight_ part (like Alex’s were), and maybe if he’d seen couples fall apart (like Alex had), and maybe if he’d moved around (like Alex did)—then he could say, “Everything feels transient, like the only fixed thing in my life is change,” and Gerard would nod and say, “That’s sad, dude, and it totally makes sense, but it isn’t true,” and Elliott might try to be a better person.

But it’s not like that. It’s not that simple.

Which is a fucking dumb thing to think, too. It’s dumb to wish he could blame his fear of abandonment on someone who had abandoned him.

/////

Elliott’s thought about how he wants to die. Not in, like, a super morbid kind of way, just in a smoking-a-bowl-with-Eliza kind of way.

He’s irrationally afraid of spiders, right? Like, he knows they _can_ hurt him, so it’s not 100% irrational, but he’s never been bitten by one, and no one he loves has ever had some kind of horrible experience with them. They’re just gross and terrifying.

And it’d be pretty shitty to go his entire life avoiding the fuck out of spiders only to die of, like, food poisoning or lung cancer, right? All those moments lost to fear, and it got him nowhere other than dead by some other cause.

So he wants to die because of a spider bite. That’s his big revelation.

/////

And if you take that same principle (switch out the variables, keep the constants), he wants someone to leave him, just so that he can say, “I fear loneliness because I have felt it,” instead of sitting at his kitchen table with his head in his hands, even more alone now than he was before he went to Vegas to break it off with Alex.

Somehow, loneliness doesn’t feel as genuine when he’s chosen it.

/////

“Mr. Anderson, you’re a Blues fan, right?”

Elliott turns from where he’s erasing the whiteboard to see Teresa sprawled out in one of the tiny desks in his classroom, wearing a blue-and-gold jersey with a 21 on the sleeves.

“Yeah, I am,” he says. “You watch the game last night?”

“No,” Teresa says, “The power went out, but I listened to it. Fucking _destroyed_ the Stars.”

“Language, T,” Elliott says, automatic. “Have you seen a clip of Berglund’s goal?”

Teresa shakes her head, and Elliott pulls it up on his laptop, turns on the projector so that they can watch it huge and a little bit grainy projected on his newly wiped whiteboard.

It’s, uh. It’s a little weird, watching these guys play while sitting with a kid who obviously worships them. Because Elliott’s met most of them, been to a couple of their houses for barbeques and New Years gatherings and shit like that. Teresa would probably freak out if Elliott told her he once dog-sat for David Backes, let alone lived with their old goaltender.

Somewhere in the past few years, that life became so _normal_ , to him, with the restrictive meal plans and strictly professional use of Twitter. But it’s gone now, just this strange fantasy world that Elliott’s got no right to be part of.

It makes him feel sick to his stomach. Not that he ever got particularly attached to any of Alex’s teammates or their families or anything, but it’s just another closed door, another extension of his life that he lost when Alex left.

Had to leave, he means. Because saying _Alex_ _left_ isn’t right.

If anyone left, it was Elliott. He hurt someone because he was afraid of being hurt.

/////

It’s like killing spiders, isn’t it? He’s terrified they’re gonna hurt him, scared of the little ones whose fangs can’t break through human skin, even though literally no one ever dies of spider bites.

So Elliott steps on spiders, and Elliott quiets his fears, and Elliott breaks up with someone who he’d decided to never stop loving.

/////

He’s selfishly glad when Alex comes out, because now it’s not a complicated risk if he’s trading stories over a few drinks and says, “My ex used to do this stupid thing—” and the person he’s chatting up inevitably asks more about this nameless, genderless person. Not that he’s going to start name-dropping, or anything, but he can say, “My ex-boyfriend, Alex, who had to move to Las Vegas for work, used to do this stupid thing—” instead of dancing around the topic completely.

On another level, though, he’s a bit annoyed about it. Alex thought he didn’t live in the closet, which was kinda true, but also a little bit naive. Even if no one ever _told_ Elliott not to put up couple-y photos on Instagram, he still didn’t do it. And, sure, they went to fancy restaurants, just the two of them, even held hands at the theater or the park, but Elliott didn’t kiss Alex in the hallways after games, and Alex didn’t mention living with someone when he got interviewed.

Which Elliott didn’t mind all that much, because the little things he gave up were nothing compared to loving Alex and being loved by Alex. They’d been friends for so many months before Alex had worked up the nerve to ask Elliott out—Elliott probably should have just gone and done it himself, but there was something about the weird “we both know we like each other but we’re gonna pretend we don’t” dance that Elliott kind of liked.

He liked feeling pursued, in a way. Wanted and needed, powerful without having to take charge. It would have been annoying if Alex hadn’t held the same amount of power over him, too.

But eventually Alex asked him to go to a baseball game, showed up in an autographed jersey like some kind of nerd, and fit himself into every empty corner of Elliott’s life.

/////

The Aces and the Blues both get knocked out of the playoffs, and Elliott realizes he doesn’t have any reason to watch the games now. It’s not like he knows anybody on the fucking Sharks roster, and it’s not like he was ever into hockey so much as into _Alex_.

If Alex were here, he’d have wanted to watch, obviously. But the TV gets turned off and Elliott calls Eliza.

/////

“Our first fight was over hockey,” he says, then thinks about it. “Our first _real_ fight, anyway. I did lock him out of the bedroom the first time he tried to cook for me.”

Eliza smiles, keeps sketching in her notebook. They’re on the couch, Elliott lying out with his head next to her thigh while she draws. She’s definitely the least emotionally stunted person in their group of friends, besides maybe Patch, but Elliott hasn’t known Patch since high school, so Eliza gets the call when he needs someone he can mope around.

“I know,” she says, “He complained about that for a month.”

“Yeah, well, you should’ve tasted his goddamn spaghetti. How the fuck do you mess up spaghetti? I swear—”

“First fight,” Eliza interrupts.

“Oh, yeah. Um, it was about hockey.”

It’s not like Elliott didn’t _know_ road trips were a thing. He was just surprised to find he wasn’t particularly trustful of his boyfriend in far away cities with a buttload of attractive men, so he was a little resentful and not even a tiny bit communicative when Alex asked what was wrong.

So they’d fought, and then they’d made up and had a hard talk about _talking_ and _trusting_ and—that’s where it had first come up.

“Hockey wasn’t the important part, though. Like, after the fight, he told me about his parents and his old team and how, like, all that made him a better person? So I was just, like, this terrible guy with no reason for being terrible, and he was this great guy with a shitty past.”

Eliza hums in acknowledgement.

“People aren’t that simple,” she says. “Sometimes we learn to hurt people because we’ve gotten hurt, and sometimes we learn _not_ to hurt people for the exact same reason. Alex was a crazy good guy, Ells.”

“And I fucking let him go.”

“No, fuck that,” Eliza says, and smacks his chest with her left hand, the one without the pencil in it. “It’s good you broke it off. I know it was painful for both of you, but if that’s what you wanted, no matter the reason, you had to be honest, okay? You _just said_ your first fight was about communication and trust.”

“Yeah, and we broke up because I couldn’t trust myself with him.”

“And that isn’t a bad thing! Fuck, Elliott, how do I… Look: it’s like this. You couldn’t trust yourself, not because you’re bad, but because you’re _learning to let go of the bad parts_ , okay? If you were really a bad person, you would have realized you couldn’t hold up the relationship and _you would not have told him_. You wouldn’t have cared that you were gonna fuck it up.”

“But I was still going to fuck it up, one way or the other,” Elliott says.

“Did you fuck it up? Elliott, did you cheat on him? Were you dishonest with him? No, you fucking weren’t, because the best way you could love him and the best way you could take care of yourself was by ending it.” Eliza sighs and leans back into the couch. “Idiot. You did the right thing. Stop turning all the hurt of losing him into anger at yourself.”

/////

So, what, Elliott kills the spiders because he knows that he’ll hurt them if he doesn’t? Or, like, kill them in a more painful way? There isn’t a part of the spider-killing equation that works with what Eliza said.

Unless breaking up with someone isn’t the same as killing something, and breaking up is actually equivalent to scooping a spider up with an old magazine and putting it outside because you’re so afraid of getting hurt that you want to kill it, and you’re really protecting the spider from yourself as much as you’re protecting yourself from the spider.

But that’s probably just taking the metaphor too far.


	4. Derrick Hackman :: Part One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derrick has a crush on Braden McCann.
> 
> (This is not news.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is told from the perspective of Derrick Hackman, one of the Aces' defensemen. It's all in the past, and a part two is coming soon.
> 
> Tags that apply here are 'homophobia,' 'bisexual character,' and 'hockey-typical violence.' Spoilery clarifications and further warnings are in the end notes.

# Derrick Hackman :: Part One

####  **2009** **  
****WINTER :: MARYLAND**

“Good game, Canner,” Derrick says, grinning as he pulls the tape off his socks.

“Not as good as you, Hacks,” Braden says, and pulls Derrick into his sweaty chest for an absolutely rancid headlock and noogie.

Derrick squawks and tries to get out, but Braden’s got both height and weight on Derrick, so his only choice is to—

“What the _fuck_ , dude, did you just _bite_ me?!”

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

“Only ‘cause you fight dirty, come on—”

“Boys,” Coach Garringer says as he passes through, exasperated, and they let go of each other to continue bickering while they undress.

/////

Derrick has a crush on Braden McCann.

This is not news. It’s been a problem since Derrick was fifteen and terrified of being apart from his parents, since Braden invited him to go out sightseeing with his mom and sister.

(“It’s gonna be really boring,” Braden had said after he’d complained about it for nearly half an hour. “You should come, too.”)

It’s only gotten worse since then, compounded by the fact that Derrick moved in with the McCanns and sees Braden every waking moment of his life. Also, sixteen-year-old Braden is a lot hotter than fourteen-year-old Braden, if you look past the scruffy half-beard and increasingly obvious disregard for hygiene.

But Derrick _does_ look past those things, because Braden is his D-partner and his best friend and roommate and he _wants_ him, not just in a sexy sort of way, but also in a sickly sweet sort of way.

Derrick wants to comb the hair out of his warm brown eyes and hold his massive hand while they walk around in DC and make out with him while the TV’s showing Alex Ovechkin run through every defense in the NHL like they’re standing still.

“You could’ve stopped him,” Derrick says from his side of the couch.

“No I couldn’t,” Braden says immediately, two cushions away. He’s got his homework out, because he still actually goes to school, doesn’t get tutored like Derrick. “But maybe you could’ve.”

“Not without you,” Derrick says.

It’s the closest he’ll let himself get.

/////

“Good game, Canner,” Derrick says. They lost.

“Not as good as you, Hacks,” Braden answers, and this time he turns away.

/////

Mr. McCann is the worst. He’s not like Derrick’s dad at all.

Sure, he goes to all their games, but car rides back from the rink are always the same.

“Boy, you should’ve been there for Carter’s pass in the second. You think scouts are here for Derrick because he never learned to sprint?”

“Boy, you need to keep your head up when you’ve got the puck. Derrick, you’ve noticed that right? That he keeps his head down?”

“Boy, that goal in the third was all on you. You know that, right?”

Derrick doesn’t know how to tell him to stop, so he just sneaks as many compliments as he can manage into his responses.

It doesn’t really matter.

Braden closes up during car rides.

/////

Derrick used to think Lori McCann was an angel from heaven, sent to watch over him and make sure he didn’t try anything stupid with Braden. She’s eighteen and stupid smart, so she’s known about Derrick’s crush since even before _Derrick_ had known about it.

Now, Derrick knows better. Lori McCann is the literal devil, and she’s intent upon making his life absolutely impossible to bear.

Right now, she’s lying on his floor in her pajamas, the red-riddled first draft of her senior thesis pillowing her head.

“You should come to our GSA meetings,” she says.

“I don’t go to your school.”

“You should come anyway.”

“I’m not gay.”

“Sure you’re not,” she says, lifting her head to roll her eyes.

“I’m not. I like girls.”

“And boys.”

“Yeah. But I’m not gay.”

“We’re not making a special Bi-Straight Alliance just for your finicky ass, Hackman,” Lori says. “Come to a meeting.”

“No,” Derrick says again.

He doesn’t want to sound paranoid, but he’s pretty sure his life would end if the guys found out.

Or the scouts found out.

Or Braden.

“I’m busy,” he says, which is true.

/////

Coach Garringer is nice, and so is Coach Paite. But neither of them are present all the time, and the boys—well, they’re boys.

“Not that I think that justifies what they say, but it explains it,” he tells Lori.

“They’re a bunch of homophobes, there’s no excuse,” she says.

And Derrick knows he’s younger than she is, but sometimes she just sounds so _naive_. Of course there’s no excuse, but what is he supposed to do about it?

Most of the guys would laugh, if Derrick tried to say anything. Or if Derrick asked Coach to say anything. A lot of them would probably get angry, too, and that would just make things worse.

And a few of them—a few of them already look at Derrick funny, like they know something, but they’re not gonna say it. He doesn’t want to know what those guys would do.

So Derrick’s big plan here is to buckle up, ride it out, and get drafted by the Leafs in the hope that Brian Burke’s kindness will trickle down to the minor leagues, too.

/////

Dinner table conversations with the McCann’s are only a little bit better than the ones in the car. Mrs. McCann is sweet, but she doesn’t want to cause a fight, so she tries to make peace instead of telling her husband to shut up and stop comparing Braden to Derrick.

Tonight, it’s this:

“Boy, you’re making Derrick look bad. His plus-minus is gonna be so low they won’t even look twice at him, and sure as hell not at you.”

“Robert,” Mrs. McCann says, her voice placating. “Braden is younger than Derrick, he’s got time to improve.”

Mr. McCann opens his wide mouth to argue, and Derrick kicks Braden under the table.

Braden looks up from where he’s hunched over his dinner.

Derrick offers him a smile, and Braden looks back down at his plate.

####  **2010** **  
****SPRING :: MARYLAND**

Braden’s putting up better numbers than he ever has before. He’s blocking more shots. He’s scoring more goals. He’s started practicing harder, pushing himself, eating better. Coach Garringer is impressed, and so is Mr. McCann.

He’s also stopped talking to Derrick.

Derrick isn’t sure why, but when he got back from World Juniors, Braden wouldn’t acknowledge him with more than a grunt while they’re off the ice.

Lori says it’s probably because of their dad, but not even she can get Braden to talk about it.

Derrick can’t sleep. His hockey hurts because of it.

/////

“Good game, Canner,” Derrick says, just like he does after every game.

Braden doesn’t respond.

“Are you—” Derrick starts, not really sure what he wants to say.

“I’m gonna go hang out with Fuzz,” Braden interrupts, still not looking at him. “Tell Dad not to wait up.”

Fuzz is one of the guys that looks at Derrick a little too intently. And now that he and Braden are apparently best friends, he’s looking at Derrick even more.

/////

He can’t remember when it starts, or who starts it. He just remembers looking in the full length mirror on the back of him and Braden’s shared bathroom door and thinking: _that’s more bruises than usual_.

He tries to brush it off, because hockey comes with bruises, but they haven’t played against anyone since the tournament last weekend and these are definitely fresh.

He starts realizing that there’s extra power behind the hits laid on him during drills. He starts to pick up on the extra pucks sent his way when he’s not looking for them, or when his back is turned, or when he’s on the bench. And, like, again—he doesn’t want to sound paranoid.

But no one is talking to him, either.

/////

He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know what he’d say.

“ _Coach, hockey hurts, and I think it’s ‘cause I’m bi._ ”

Fuck no.

He gets trapped against the boards during a scrimmage and someone hisses in his ear, almost so quiet he can’t hear—and he knows, he knows he’s right.

/////

He doesn’t let himself think about it until he’s rubbing Icy Hot into the bruise on his throat that Fuzz’s stray puck left near the end of practice. The chemicals are already making his eyes burn, and his entire body aches, and he hates his team and he loves his best friend and he doesn’t know, he doesn’t know why Braden hates him, doesn’t know why he can’t just be _normal_ —

The door busts open, and Derrick jerks back from the mirror, hand going to his throat like hiding the bruise on his neck will make the mottled purple and yellow of his bare ribs and stomach disappear, too.

“Oh,” Braden says, and it’s so quiet Derrick isn’t sure he didn’t imagine it.

“Um, it’s just—” _hockey_ , Derrick can’t say, because hockey has made him cry, sure, but it’s never broken his heart.

Braden’s eyes are growing wider, taking in every inch of exposed skin. And Derrick, he’s always wanted Braden’s eyes on him, but this is terrible, this isn’t right at all. He didn’t want Braden to see him pale and spotty in the yellow bathroom lights.

“Hacks,” Braden says, his voice breaking, “Derrick, did they—did they do this to you?”

“No,” Derrick says, too fast, and Braden eyes cut up to his.

“They did,” he says. “They did this to you, fuck, I can’t—fuck, Derrick, this is my fault—”

“No,” Derrick says, more sure this time, “No, it’s not, don’t say that—”

“It _is_ ,” Braden insists, reaching up to pull Derrick’s hands away from his throat. “Oh God, oh fuck, I’m so _sorry_.”

Braden keeps a hold of Derrick’s right hand, but lets go of his left to reach up and rest a cautious hand on Derrick’s cheek, brushing away tears with his thumb. Derrick closes his eyes and leans into it.

“I knew,” Braden says, voice hushed, “I knew that you liked guys. Liked _me_ ,” and Derrick’s breath hitches, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “And I always—I always made sure they couldn’t hurt you. That they wouldn’t.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Derrick breathes out, and opens his eyes to see Braden that much closer to him, eyes so, so sad.

“I was overwhelmed,” Braden murmurs. “My dad… I’m so sorry. I know I’m not gonna be good enough to go pro, and I was _jealous_. I didn’t think. I was being selfish, but I never wanted you hurt.”

Derrick huffs a humorless laugh and grips the hem of Braden’s sweatshirt in his free hand.

“ _Derrick_ ,” Braden says, and then there’s no more space between them.

Braden’s mouth is soft on his, slow and warm, and Derrick might think it was reluctant if it weren’t for the noises he’s making, the hand he has on Derrick’s face angling him _just so_.

Derrick isn’t sure how long they stay like that, how long they’re falling into each other. And he doesn’t know whether to wish they’d stopped, or wish they had gotten more time to draw it out, because—

“What the _hell_ ,” Derrick hears, and it’s like getting slammed into the boards one final time, only that would be okay, Derrick would prefer that to Braden jumping away from him because his dad is right there, standing in the hallway.

“You,” Mr. McCann says, and it’s all for Derrick, more anger and judgment than he’s ever seen before, blazing in every bit of the man’s expression, directed right at him.

But he’ll take it. For Braden, he’ll—

“Dad—”

“Get the _hell_ out, you fucking _predator_ ,” Mr. McCann growls, and grabs Derrick’s arm.

“Dad, no!” Braden says, as Derrick gets yanked into the hallway.

“Pack your bag,” Mr. McCann says, and his tone brooks no argument. “And _go_.”

/////

Carderock is a very nice neighborhood, which means Derrick needs to get the fuck out of there before someone notices him. Most families don’t take kindly to anyone loitering on their street corner at one AM, especially not a guy who’s six foot two, wearing all black, and carrying a duffle bag.

He’s two streets away from the McCann’s when he tries to call home. He’s not surprised when no one picks up; it’s late and his parents have work in the morning.

It’s early February, and the cold is cutting through his hoodie, amplifying everything that already ached. He really wishes he had a car. He’s got a phone, but it’s just one of those dinky ones with the slide out keyboard, not a smartphone. He’s got money, but only enough for a cab and a hotel, probably.

He doesn’t know how to find a cab, though. You probably have to call them, if you’re in the suburbs, and Derrick doesn’t have the number and no way to look it up.

It takes him another mile of trekking through the dimly lit streets to work up the courage to call Coach, but—he’s really the only option, isn’t he?

/////

Coach pulls up half an hour after Derrick woke him, and at this point Derrick’s so tired and numb that he doesn’t even try to meet Coach’s eyes, just climbs in the passenger side of his car and leans against the window.

He thinks Coach asks him some questions, but everything goes pretty fuzzy until Coach shakes him awake.

The car is parked in front of a small ranch, Derrick sees, and the lights are on in the kitchen.

“That’d be Amanda,” Coach says softly as they get out of the car. “I told her to go back to sleep, but obviously she didn’t listen.”

“Sorry,” Derrick starts, but Coach ignores him and circles around the car to grab Derrick’s duffle out of the trunk.

“Let’s get you set up inside,” he says, and Derrick nods, because there’s nothing else he can do.

/////

He wakes up early, but he doesn’t move until Coach knocks on the guest bedroom door.

“Come in,” he says, voice scratchy, and sits up.

“Hey,” Coach says, and sits down in an armchair across the small room. “Amanda’s making breakfast if you want to tell me what’s going on.”

Derrick stares down at his hands folded in his lap. He opens his mouth, but he can’t find the words, so he closes it again and shakes his head.

It’s not like he thinks Coach will hate him. Coach is pretty young, and he’s a nice guy. He and Amanda are expecting their first kid, and Coach is gonna be such a good dad.

“That’s okay,” Coach says gently. “You’re gonna need to call your folks after we eat, let them know where you are. Then you can shower, and we can head to the rink to get ready for tonight, alright? We'll figure out the rest later.”

/////

Derrick is not ready for the game.

Braden isn’t there, and Coach Garringer looks concerned about it but he doesn’t tell Derrick anything, which means Derrick is on edge all throughout warm-ups, throughout Coach Paite’s talk about their new PK strategy.

Derrick doesn’t look at anyone, and no one looks at him. His brain is foggy and his limbs are stiff; he’s tired from the night before and nothing is going right.

He wins his second face-off, more by chance than anything else, and Tripp sends it back to him half a second before he can get his body angled down the ice, which means he doesn’t see the hit coming.

/////

It’s kinda funny, he thinks, laughing as he lies on the ice, vision gone spotty and grey. It’s kinda fucking funny that this fatass forward from northern Maryland just finished the job that every teammate and their dad has been too scared to complete.

It’s _hilarious_ that this would all happen at once. Of fucking _course_ it would all happen at once.

“Derrick,” Coach Garringer says from far away, and he sounds terrified. “Talk to me buddy, tell us what hurts.”

Derrick hiccups another laugh, and he’s definitely crying, too.

“Everything hurts, Coach,” he tries to say, but it slurs into something unintelligible, he thinks. There’s a ringing in his ears, and it’s not stopping.

/////

When Derrick starts paying attention again, he’s in a hospital bed, and Coach Garringer is slumped over in the seat next to him with his head in his hands.

“Coach?” he croaks.

Coach’s head snaps up, and his eyes are wet, but he looks relieved.

“Hey,” Coach says, voice far away and muffled, even though he’s scooting his chair closer. Derrick shifts his head so that his right ear isn’t pressed against the pillow, and that helps a bit. “How are you feeling?”

Derrick opens his mouth to say he’s fine, but Coach’s face is so open that he can’t bring himself to lie.

“Not great,” he settles on.

Coach nods.

Derrick needs some gum or something. His ears won’t pop.

“I’ll get the doctor,” Coach says. “We don’t have to talk now. Your parents are driving up from Norfolk.”

/////

There is absolutely no doubt that Derrick has a concussion, but they can’t tell how bad it is.

His hearing is gone in his left ear, and they don’t know if that’s coming back.

He has contusions on his throat, thighs, and back.

His ribs are bruised. One is fractured.

“I think the fracture is new,” the doctor says from his right side. Everyone is very careful to stay on his right side. “But most of the visible bruising looks old.”

“Derrick,” Coach says when she leaves, “Crap, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have played you.”

“I wanted to play,” Derrick says. “It’s not your fault I got hurt.”

“But you didn’t have to _be_ hurt,” Coach says.

Derrick turns his head, which doesn’t feel good. His neck is pretty sore.

“I mean, it’s just the game, c’mon—”

“Dammit, Derrick,” Coach says, cutting him off, and this might be the first time he’s heard Coach swear. “This isn’t the game. This is something else, and I’m sorry. I let you down.”

“It’s alright, Coach,” Derrick says, a little lost.

“It’s really not," Coach says, and Derrick doesn't argue.

/////

His parents drive up to check him out of the hospital. Coach tells them everything he knows, which is definitely more than Derrick’s told him. He probably found a way to talk to Braden, Derrick guesses.

“I’ll look out for him,” Coach tells him. “You just go get better.”

Derrick’s not allowed to look at his phone, but his mom tells him he has a text from Lori.

“She says Braden’s got his phone taken away,” she says, “and that they both hope you’re doing alright, and they’ll see you soon.”

Derrick smiles a little bit at the last part.

He’ll see them soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, all of which is hockey-typical but some of which is intentional and homophobic.  
> Derrick is pretty severely injured in the course of the fic, and it ends pretty unsatisfactorily.


	5. Sebastian Mäkinen :: A Beginner's Guide to Friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dominic Richards drops his bags on the spare bed, flops down on the duvet, and starts to fuck with Sebastian’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is told from the perspective of Sebastian Mäkinen, second-line left winger for the Aces.
> 
> Tags that apply to this chapter are 'friendship' and 'team dynamics.' There are some references to homophobia and hockey-typical violence, but nothing that isn't covered in the other tags.

# Sebastian Mäkinen ::  
Ilmatyynyalukseni On  
Täynnä Ankeriaita

Sebastian knows English. Not, like, perfectly, or anything, but once his dad realized he was actually kinda good at hockey, he’d made Sebastian enroll in more rigorous classes than he was already taking.

“Keep your options open, Sab,” his dad had said, “You never know what’s going to happen. Just be ready when it does.”

Paavo Mäkinen said stuff like that a lot: _you never know what will happen._

Sab really likes his dad. He used to be a speedskater, even made it to Lillehammer for the 1994 Olympics. If it weren’t for Sab, he probably would’ve made it to Nagano, too.

“Maybe not,” Paavo had said once. “Maybe I would have gotten on the ice with Gianni Romme and quit out of embarrassment.”

That’s another thing Sab’s dad said a lot: _you never know what might have happened._

He’d always said he’d rather watch Sab skate than skate himself, which is good, because Paavo had given it all up to raise him.

They didn’t talk about Sab’s mom much, but that only started to hurt when Sab was old enough to realize most people’s parents came in pairs. It also stopped hurting, at some point.

####  **2013** **  
****SPRING :: NEWARK**

The day Sab is drafted is one of the best days Sab can remember.

He’d known he’d be here—everyone has told him; coaches, analysts, friends, his dad.

Paavo holds Sab tight before he can go up on the stage to pull on the black and white jersey. He’s not top three material, not even top fifteen, but he’s first-round and he’s going to a team with a _chance_.

The day Sab’s dad gets on a plane back to Helsinki and leaves him in Vegas is one of the worst days Sab can remember.

####  **FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

His first year… it’s fine. He wants to veto the billeting thing, isn’t sure how he’ll feel about living so closely with someone he doesn’t know, but Paavo tells him to go for it and he moves in with the Whites anyway.

It’s hard to find a church and he has to buy suits and a car and figure out things like working visas and American driver’s licenses and health insurance.

He’s not sure if this stuff makes everyone feel like they’re drowning or if it’s just him.

####  **2014** **  
****SPRING :: NEW YORK CITY**

Everything kind of blurs together—seventy-five percent of conversations going over his head—until they’re in the playoffs and they _just_ _keep winning._ Sab is giddy with it, expecting to wake up from some prolonged dream to find out he’s actually still in Helsinki, playing with his friends.

But they make the playoffs, and after they beat the Sharks, and the Ducks, and the ‘Hawks, they’re in New York for the final, and the Rangers lead the series 3-2.

And Sab nets a goal on a breakaway.

In overtime.

In game six.

He doesn’t win the Stanley Cup for them—that’s all Parse and Chaz. But that goal is the biggest assist of his life, right? Not the series winner, but it _set up the series winner_. He wins game six, and _they all_ win game seven, and he hasn’t even lived in the U.S. a full year before he does a lap around a subdued Madison Square Garden with fifteen and a half kilograms of metal shining over his head.

####  **SUMMER :: HAMINA & MINSK & LAS VEGAS**

Over the summer, he works off six weeks of his military duty, wins a silver medal at Worlds, moves out of Chaz’s basement, and gets a new roommate. September arrives too soon, and Sab’s dad comes with him to help him move into the apartment he’s renting with one of the Aces up-again, down-again defensemen who looked promising at camp.

Or—Sab guesses Derrick Hackman looked promising, if he’s staying up with the team. Sab wishes he’d paid more attention during camp, but he hadn’t known they were going to be living together.

Paavo stays in the guest bedroom for two weeks before he has to return to Helsinki. Hackman offers to drive them to the airport, but Sab refuses, because he knows he’s gonna cry like a baby when he says goodbye.

Hackman takes the rejection with good grace, and when Sab walks back into the apartment, eyes still stinging, Hackman has subtitles on SportsCenter and an extra beer on the coffee table.

It’s not much, but it means something.

####  **FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

Hackman is American, but he’s still a calming presence for Sab, quiet and focussed. Both of them have set routines that work well in tandem.

Sab doesn’t make fun of Hackman for always making out with women in bars but never bringing them home, and Hackman doesn’t make fun of Sab for the number of times he calls his dad per week—every Sunday at noon, the night before a road trip, before and after each game, and any time Sab’s even a little bit drunk.

In the beginning, Sebastian does the shopping and Hackman insists on doing the cooking, but as time goes on, they just do all of it together.

They usually end up driving everywhere together, too, but they always wait up whenever one is out later than the other, a nearly exact replication of that first night, with subtitles on the TV screen and an extra bottle of whatever’s in the fridge.

Sab had assumed that the subtitles were just for him, since he’s still working on his English and everything, but one day in practice, after Steve-O yells at Hackman for not following directions or something, Hackman grabs him by the sleeve of his jersey.

“I’m deaf in my left ear,” Hackman says, ice cold.

Steve-O stops looking pissed off and starts looking curious.

“Really?” he says. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah. So, like, next time, if you think I’m not paying attention, either yell louder or get where I can see you. If there’s too much going on, this whole area,” Hackman waves his left arm around behind him, “is like an auditory blind spot.”

“Shit,” Steve-O says. “What happened? Like, have you been that way from birth, or…”

“Concussion,” Hackman says, and he skates away.

When Sab asks about the subtitles, Hackman laughs and tells him they were for both of them, really.

“We make a good pair, Sebs,” he says. “We both need subtitles, you don’t mind riding shotgun, and I like to drive so I can hear you over the car.”

/////

Sab learns that Hackman loves baseball, and Hackman makes Sab teach him all the ways that it’s different than Finnish _pesäpallo_ while they watch DVRed Nationals games.

“So basically, the American version is just bigger, huh,” Hackman says after he’s patiently listened to Sab stumble through an explanation of pitching plates and snap hits and the virtual non-existence of the outfield.

Sab hums, scrunching his face up in thought before he says, “No. Well. Yes, but because of this, _pesäpallo_ has more strategy. More plays, more thinking.”

“That makes sense,” Hackman says, and he doesn’t even look mad that he missed Bryce Harper’s home run because Sab was talking, just rewinds it so that they can watch him jog around the bases to the roar of Washington’s crowd.

Bryce Harper would be useless in Finland, Sab decides. All that strength and precision wasted on a lobbed ball in a small field.

####  **2015** **  
****FALL :: LAS VEGAS**

Sab’s third year on the team should have looked pretty much the same as the last one.

He’s in the box when Hackman gets hurt in a preseason game, so his view is unobstructed when Hackman goes down at a weird angle and he slides into the boards, unmoving.

Even from here, Sab can see the dots of red on the clean white ice, can practically hear the talk of concussions.

He grips his phone tight in his hand and wishes that it wasn’t 5 AM in Helsinki.

/////

Hackman has to stay with the Whites so that Chastity and the girls can keep an eye on him during their upcoming road trip.

Dominic Richards gets called up. He drops his bags on the spare bed, flops down on the duvet, and he starts to fuck with Sebastian’s carefully crafted world.

/////

Richards is the second of the Aces’ two third-round picks in 2014. Parse says he did well at prospect camp, that he’s impressing everyone in the AHL. He doesn’t start off with a ton of ice time, because he’s filling in for Hackman and Hackman didn’t get much, either.

Richards’ alarm is Kanye West. He wears skinny ties and Ray-Bans with his game-day suits. He has so many pairs of sneakers that the thrifty part of Sab’s soul hurts a little bit every time he peeks into Richie’s room.

Richie’s from Toronto, he drives a mid-sized sedan, and he refers to Mike Richards as Daddy.

/////

“Dude!” Richie calls, slamming through their front door one evening.

“What?” Sab says absently. He’s not purposefully ignoring Richie, but he’s pretty involved in this sudoku puzzle. He’d started getting the paper so that he could stay up-to-date with American politics, but that shit is just _depressing_. He tries not to be uppity about the Finnish government, but Americans just make it _so hard_.

He prefers numbers over words, anyway.

“Mike Richards is a free agent!” Richie says.

“Okay.”

“C’mon, man! We could pick up _Mike Richards. Mike motherfucking_ —”

“He’s the, like,” Sab waves his hand around, “Drug guy?”

He knows who Mike Richards is. He just has to make sure _Richie_ knows.

“Yeah, but, like. Come on. My _father_. Mike _Richards_.”

“Mike Richards is not your dad.”

“Well, no,” Richie agrees happily, flinging himself down on the couch next to Sab. “But he totally could be.”

Sab furrows his brow and shoots Richie a look.

“He’s white.”

“Maybe I’m just really tan,” Richie says, shrugging. “You don’t know.”

“He would have—he would be, like, ten years old. When you are born.”

“Whatever, dude. I’m just saying,” Richie says, waving a dismissive hand. “Hey, do you wanna go on another adventure tonight?”

Sab does want to go. They’re just travelling tomorrow; they can afford to go out tonight. But part of the game he and Richie play is that he has to pretend to be reluctant. It would feel like losing if he said he wanted to go.

He lets out a long, put-upon sigh, purposefully flattening out the wrinkles in his paper.

“I don’t know,” he says, using his most boring voice.

“ _Sebs_ ,” Richie whines, slouching into the couch cushions, “Sebby, we _gotta_.”

Sab hums, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He pencils in a 7 in a random box, just to give the appearance of concentration. He’ll erase it later.

“Sebs. You said you’d help me.”

“Yes,” Sab allows. He had said that.

“You said you would. C’mon, man, we’ve only hit up, like, two bars, _max._ ”

They’ve been to five.

“ _Fine_ ,” Sab says, finally grinning. “You have a place picked out?”

/////

It had started like this: Steve-O, Roman, Valley, and Rod had taken Richie out to welcome him into the D-man clique. Since Richie was young and Las Vegas was crazy, they decided it was a good move to take him to the most, well, _Vegas_ bar they could find.

And Richards, instead of being shocked and appalled by the depravity of the Strip, was _disappointed._

“I’ve been to frat parties raunchier than that, Sebs,” he had complained to Sab when he’d gotten back. “Hot Rod wouldn’t even let me go shot-for-shot with Roman.”

“Roman is _Russian_. And he is—fifteen kilos more than you?”

Richie had glared, so Sab knew he was right. Richie visibly collected himself to complain more effectively.

“But _still_. I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I? I shouldn’t be able to talk. That was _lame_.”

So they’d made an agreement. They’re going to find the worst bar in Vegas.

It’s kind of exactly what Sab told his dad he _wouldn’t_ do with his newfound fortune, but he plays hockey for a living. He can probably hold his own. And it’s not like he and Richie are doing this in order to actually _participate_ in the debauchery, anyway. It’s for, like, research purposes. And friendship.

/////

Richie has compiled a list of all the worst bars his teammates have been to. Sab has consulted Google.

They’ve been to a couple now. They’re not ready for this one.

“Dick’s... Last Resort,” Sab says.

He’s not sure about this. Like, he is sure, in that this is _definitely_ going to be a terrible experience, but he’s not sure he wants to have it any more.

“Dick’s Last Resort,” Richie confirms, his voice is full of awe.

They’re standing outside one of the least appealing establishments that Sab has ever seen. And he’s seen some run down places, okay? Namely, the last two bars they’d gone to for their mission. But this one is actively _trying_ to be shitty. Which seems like a gamble, as far as marketing goes, but it’s Vegas, so that makes sense.

Plus, it must be working. There are a lot of people in there. Lots of young guys and middle aged women. That’s probably not the crowd any other bar would want to attract, but it’s still a crowd, one way or another.

There’s a fiberglass statue of a scruffy white tourist holding a frothy beer out front. Dickie’s looking at it like he’s found his soulmate, or the Stanley Cup with his name engraved on it.

 _Shame o’ the Strip_ , the sign proclaims. Sab silently agrees.

He reaches over to Richie, pushes his jaw closed where it’s been hanging slack.

“This is a shithole,” Richie says weakly. He turns to Sab, eyes wide. “I love it. Sebs, I belong here.”

“You can’t stay forever,” Sab says instantly.

“I have to. It’s got my name on it.”

“No,” Sab says.

Richie pouts.

“Come on, Dick. Let’s see your bar,” Sab says, guiding him in by the elbow.

They’re both wearing baseball caps, pulled low just in case. Richie’s an underage rookie, and getting caught out drinking his second month in the NHL would be pretty bad. It’s one thing when it’s, like, _actual_ team bonding or some shit, but this… what’s going on right now probably doesn’t count.

/////

Their waitress tosses the silverware on the table and asks Richie if he’s blind; Richie has already started giggling when he says no.

The waitress looks at Sab for a solid thirty seconds and then says, “Well, I guess you’ve just got a huge cock, ‘cause he’s definitely not with you for your face.”

And then she walks away.

Richie is wheezing with laughter, because he’s actually thirteen years old.

Sab takes a little longer to start laughing. He’s not offended that the waitress said that, but he’s definitely offended that Richie isn’t defending his dashing good looks.

The waitress comes back with waters and a house beer each; she didn’t even bother checking their IDs. She’s also holding two white paper chef hats.

“Here, let me fix this for you,” she says, gesturing at Sab’s entire head. He opens his mouth to argue, but she just knocks his ballcap off and shoves the chef hat over his eyes.

He pushes it back up to his hairline in time to see Richie getting the same treatment, though she doesn’t pull his nearly as low.

“Wait, Dickie,” Sab says, because he’s noticed— “the hat has words.”

Richie’s says _I BLOW BUBBLES_ in fat black marker.

“I blow bubbles?” Sab asks, confused.

Richie bites his lips, his face blotchy with contained laughter. He points at Sab’s own hat. Sab yanks it off.

 _I’M BUBBLES_ , his hat reads.

“We found it,” Richie says hysterically, his voice a couple octaves higher than normal. “We found the shittiest bar in Vegas.”

/////

Sebs cuts himself off after his second terrible drink. Like really, it’s _the worst_.

Richie keeps going for few more, but he’s just on the far side of tipsy when they settle the bill. Which is forty-three motherfucking dollars.

An older woman in a hat that says _MY LEGS ARE OPEN MORE OFTEN THAN WAL-MART_ trips over herself staring at Richie’s ass when they get up to leave. Sab laughs, but doesn’t tell Richie about it, because there’s no need to feed his arrogance.

/////

Hackman drops by the next morning to pick up some of his stuff.

He looks a little surprised to see Richie sacked out on the couch in tighty whities and a sweatshirt, which is fair, since Richie definitely has a bed. The paper hats are set up on the coffee table next to his meticulously folded jeans.

Sab grins at Hackman from the kitchen, motions for him to be quiet before he crams eight whole-grain English muffins into the toaster. Hackman rolls his eyes and comes behind the bar to slap Sab lightly on the shoulder.

It’s really more of a pat.

“He okay?” Hackman asks, but he doesn’t sound too worried.

“Oh, yes. We went out last night.”

“With the guys?”

“No, just us. We are, ah,” Sab falters. They haven’t told anyone else about their ‘research’, but it’s not like they did that on purpose. He suddenly, irrationally feels like he’s somehow cheating on his roommate. With another roommate. But like, not in a sexy way, just in a buddy way.

Which is _stupid_.

Hackman’s raising his eyebrows now, waiting for an end to that sentence.

“We try to find the worst bar in Vegas. Take you to the winner when we are finish, yes?”

“You’re _always_ Finnish,” Hackman says, laughing at his own stupid joke.

“You look happy,” he says next, which seems a little out of the blue. “You didn’t get out much last year.”

“No,” Sab concedes, but he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t really know what to make of this conversation. It’s weirding him out.

Hackman stands there a minute longer, just smiling like a dork until Sab remembers to ask, “How are—uh, how is your head?”

“Good,” Hackman says, smile dimming a little bit. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “It’s good, all my symptoms have been gone for over a week now. Just have to be cautious because this isn’t my first, but I’m gonna be back on the ice soon.”

“That’s good.”

“Yeah, hopefully I’ll be moving back in in the next week or two,” Hackman says, and at this point the smile has completely fallen from his face. “But, like. They could send me down.”

Sab hasn’t thought of that, but it’s true. Richie is putting up better numbers than Hackman did last year. They don’t have an overflowing roster, but that can change, especially if Yates thinks he needs conditioning.

“Fuck,” he says, because what else can he say?

“Yeah,” Hackman agrees, “Fuck. I have a meeting with Hucks tomorrow, so. Wish me luck.”

Sab nods. He doesn’t wish Hackman anything, because his dad always says not to trust luck. He says he trusts that there’s going to _be_ luck, but he’s not foolish enough to go _wishing_ for it.

“This is still your house,” Sab says lamely, because he’s gotta say something and he doesn’t want to call it Hackman’s _home_ , not if Hackman doesn’t feel like that. This way, Hackman can just assume what he wants about what Sab’s trying to say. “There always is room for you.”

Hackman grins again, genuine and warm, claps him on the shoulder and heads for his room.

/////

Hackman stays through breakfast, laughing when Richie doesn’t get up until Sab starts whaling on him with a decorative pillow.

Richie falls off the sofa and rolls into Sab’s legs, wraps himself around them and starts yelling, just one long, solid note, getting steadily louder until Sab shakes him off and goes back into the kitchen to relieve Hackman of the eggs.

They sit on the couch since there are only two barstools and nobody, over a period of one and a half years, has seen fit to purchase a table and chairs. Sebastian makes a mental note to get that done.

But not today, because they have to be at the airport in forty-five minutes. Which is important.

/////

They win. Sebastian doesn’t put one past Talbot, but he gets two assists, one on the powerplay to Parse and one to JB. The second is an ugly, _ugly_ goal, but it’s still a goal, and they would’ve won regardless. He’s settling in on the bus back to the hotel when he thinks to check his phone.

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:10  
bro

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:11  
i met with hucks and he said i’m going  
down for a few weeks while they work  
stuff out, but that i’d be back probably

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:13  
obviously after i get better but you  
know what i mean

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:14  
so i’m gonna move back in tomorrow if  
that’s chill

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:32  
?

 **Derrick Hackman** 8:50  
ohh right you’re playing. right i knew that

 **Sebastian Mäkinen** 11:02  
Sure your concussion is better?

 **Derrick Hackman** 11:03  
shut the fuck up sebs

 **Sebastian Mäkinen** 11:04  
No

 **Sebastian Mäkinen** 11:04  
Also yes please, move back in. Dickie  
doesn’t cook or shop.

 **Derrick Hackman** 11:05  
awww no one can replace me. not  
that the competition was stiff

Gordo leans over the back of his seat to see what Sab’s laughing about. He snorts, and Sab jumps, but doesn’t have time to do anything before Gordo’s saying, “Hey, Dickie, you might wanna check out your buddy’s phone, there.”

Which, okay. That’s in _extreme_ violation of the bro code, so Sab shoots a glare at Gordo and tries to hide his screen before Richie can look at it, with no luck.

Richie furrows his brow as he manhandles the phone out of Sab’s grip.

“What the fuck is this, Sebs?” He says, pointing at Hackman’s last text, which is jumble of emojis.

“Just, uh, picture of our apartment,” Sab tries, nervous.

Richie squints.

“So you’re a Finnish dude with a banana, in love with Hackman—”

“ _Hack-_ man. Not Hack- _man._ ”

“What?”

“Rhymes with Pac- _Ten_ ,” Gordo offers, ever the helpful one.

“The football conference?”

“Yeah. Not, like, Pac- _Man_.”

Richie laughs, then starts to fiddle with Sab’s phone. He hands it back and everything’s the same except—

 **Sebastian Mäkinen** 11:09  
fuck u 2 dude  
\- dickie

 **Pac-Man** 11:10  
good comeback buddy

Sab rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t change Hackman’s contact back.

/////

Hackman stays with them for the remainder of his recovery. He practices with them and sees the trainer afterwards while Sebastian gets a massage or uses the bikes. Richie’s most often drawn to the free weights, but they finish up around the same time so that they can carpool back home.

Hackman’s Jeep is infinitely cooler than the reasonably-sized sedans that Sab and Richie own, so Richie doesn’t make a fuss when Hackman insists on driving.

Sab can tell Hackman’s in a weird place, which is understandable. He wants to get better, but as soon as he does, he’s probably getting shipped out of state to play with the minors until the executives make space for him. Which could mean waiting for him to get better than Richie. Or it could mean waiting for someone to get injured.

He wishes there was something he could do other than playing roommate matchmaker between his two best friends, trying to make sure they get along since it would be so damn easy for them to resent one another.

But there’s not anything he can do, so he just watches as Hackman steadily improves and Richie continues to excel.

/////

And then Chaz blows out his knee.

It’s in a game against the motherfucking Kings, because everything bad happens in games against the motherfucking Kings.

Sab’s not on the ice, but Richie is, and somewhere between Chaz diving for the puck and Chaz being stretchered off the ice, Richie skates over to the bench. He looks like he might puke, but he just leans up against the boards while Sab leans out, throwing an arm over Richie’s shoulder.

“He’s going to be okay,” Sab confirms, like it’s a fact, not a question.

Richie shakes his head.

“He is,” Sab says. He tightens his grip on the back of his friend’s neck.

/////

Hackman doesn’t get sent down. He’s a healthy scratch, back at 100%, practicing with the team but not playing in games, stuck in limbo. He’s frustrated.

Some rookie goalie who just got called up gets the start after their backup loses three games in a row by no small margin.

The coaches try to mix shit up. They play the defense harder, shuffling things around, and suddenly Hackman gets to dress for games, gets to skate under the lights of the dome for the first time this season.

The second guy, Gibby, does better, which isn’t saying much; he gets the W for two games before he drops the next pair.

And then Parse is called off the ice during optional skate, and he comes back looking like he would rather be staring into oncoming traffic than skating over to Jeff right now. And then Jeff’s gone, and Gibby’s gone, and—

New Guy moves in two floors down, and Hackman starts looking a little wild around the eyes whenever his phone goes off, but when his agent eventually calls, it’s to tell him he’s gonna be with the Aces for the foreseeable future.

Which means they go out day drinking to the next shitty vodka lounge on their list after practice. Hackman’s a happy drunk, smiling and giggling and blushing pink whenever anyone laughs at his jokes; Richie’s more of a dance-on-the-table, wear-your-polo-as-a-hat drunk, which is Sab’s cue to grab him by the knees and wrestle him back into the padded seats before someone recognizes them.

/////

The next day, Sab and Richie borrow Rod’s pick-up truck to go out and buy a table, four chairs, another barstool, and a grill. Hackman’s on grocery duty, picking up propane and burgers and tongs and a red and white checkered apron so that Sab can grill chicken and burgers out on the balcony.

“Dude,” Hackman says, when he and Richie have finished fighting over the right way to place the chairs around their new breakfast table, “We can, like, _entertain_ now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie agrees, “What about Fitzy? He lives downstairs, right?”

Sab and Richie get nominated to go fetch him while Hackman finishes slicing tomatoes and onions.

Richie thunders ahead of Sab; he’s already beating on Fitzy’s front door when Sab comes out of the stairwell.

Ftiz opens the door, looking bemused.

“Hello?”

“Dude,” Richie opens with, “Come up to our place! We, like, got an actual table and Sebs made food and Pac-Man bought groceries—”

“Fitz,” Sab interjects, “We live upstairs, yeah? You come eat with us.”

Fitzy grins at them and turns to jam his feet into a pair of shoes.

/////

It becomes a bit of a thing, them bringing Fitzy up for meals. Fitzy might think he’s taking them all under his wing, but what’s really going on is more like this:

“That guy cannot fucking feed himself,” Richie says.

“I saw him eat an entire reheated hamburger in a fresh bun,” Hackman agrees. “Like, eating two buns at once. Old soggy one inside the new one.”

“He drinks brown smoothies,” Sab supplies. “ _Brown_ ones.”

“He’s got at least two and half rotisserie chickens in his fridge at any given time,” Richie says.

“We’ve gotta help him out,” Hackman concludes.

Sab nods solemnly. Richie performs the sign of the cross.

####  **2016** **  
****WINTER :: LAS VEGAS**

A month or two passes, and all of Parse’s shit hits the fan.

Sab pretends he doesn’t know English when anyone talks to him. Reporters, Gordo, Richie, Hackman. _What? Sorry, no English_. Or, when he can’t get away with that, a half shrug and a tired smile.

He’s sitting on his bed, untying his shoes with his right hand, holding his phone up to his ear with his left.

“ _I’m sorry that this is happening_ ,” his dad is saying.

“Me too.”

“ _I wish I was there_.”

“Me too. I don’t know what to do.”

“ _Nothing, probably. Be kind. It’ll probably undermine hockey for awhile. Be understanding, don’t hold that against your captain. But don’t contribute to it, either_.”

“Mmhm,” Sab hums, “I want to help him.”

“ _He has friends he’s close with. They’ll help him. The best thing for you to do is to watch his back and make sure he’s got support. Keep an eye on the rest of the boys, especially the ones your age_.”

“Okay. I will.”

“ _You’re a good leader, Sebastian_ ,” Paavo says, which isn’t true at all. “ _I’m proud of you_.”

“Thanks, _isä._ ”

He hangs up and goes back into the living room. Hackman in his spot on the left side of the couch, scrolling through twitter; Richie is stretched out on the carpet nearby, glaring at his phone.

Sab drops onto the far side of the couch, stretching his legs out to so that his feet nudge at Hackman’s thigh.

“I hate this,” he says, quietly.

Richie nods and says, “Media’s a bitch.”

“I hate—I hate that he have to hide this,” Sab says. “Or if he feels like he have to.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Sebs, that’s… damn.”

They lapse into silence.

“Dickie?” Hackman says, voice soft.

“Yeah?”

“You alright down there?”

Richie rolls over onto his back and looks up at them.

“I kissed a boy in juniors,” he says.

“Everyone kissed a boy in juniors, Dicks,” Hackman says, still quiet. He’s looking at his phone still, but the screen’s gone black. “Parse isn’t talking about spin the bottle or some shit.”

“I didn’t,” Sab volunteers. “Kiss a boy in juniors, I mean.”

“Huh. Maybe Finland’s just weird, then,” Richie says. “And fuck you, Pac-Man, we weren’t playing _spin the bottle_.”

“Seven minutes in heaven?” Hackman asks, a little more sharply than the question deserves.

“Yeah,” Richie answers, deflating. “But it was more like three minutes, and I got a boner and the other guy got weirded out, so heaven’s probably not the right comparison there.”

There’s a pause, while they think about that.

“I kissed a boy, too, back in juniors,” Hackman says. “I’m pretty sure I was in love with him.”

“What happened?” Sab asks, a little scared to find out.

Hackman gives him a weak smile.

“Nothing good.”

Sab says, “I never kissed anybody,” without thinking about it, because he really wants Hackman to stop looking so sad.

Richie sits up fast, like a vampire, phone falling off his chest and into his lap.

“Wanna change that, Sebs?” he asks, a little too enthusiastically, waggling his eyebrows.

“No,” Sab says. “Also, another confession: my name? Is not _Sebs,_ okay, is _Sab._ Three years, the Aces call me this, and it is not my name.”

“Sab? What?”

“Yes.”

“But it—” Hackman cuts himself off with a huff. “ _Fuck_. Sebastian is, like, S-E-B, not S-A-B.”

“Nah, Sebastian’s an S-O-B, am I right, kids?” Richie says, snickering.

“Shut up, Dick,” Hackman admonishes, scrubbing a hand through Richie’s hair like he’s a puppy. “Do you want us to change what we call you, Sebs? Or, uh, Sab? Dammit—”

“Eh,” Sab says, shrugging, “No. Doesn’t matter a lot.”

It’s not like anyone pronounces the rest of his name right, anyway.

“Okay,” Richie says easily, “Just let us know if you change your mind.”

/////

They watch the press conference all jammed together on their couch, and Sab’s not, like— _offended_ , or some shit like that, even if Alex is coming out to everyone without so much as a word to them.

Sab’s a little sad that Alex and Hackman didn’t tell him they were into guys, but if he actually takes the time to think about it, he knows it’s his own guilt speaking. Like, maybe they didn’t trust him with that part of their life.

Which is stupid, because he’s known Fitzy for all of, what, two and a half months? And he’s known Parse for two and half _years_ , doesn’t even feel a little weird about Parse not telling him shit.

His dad would say it’s just different circumstances, that he can feel differently about different people even if there isn’t a crazy obvious reason besides them being _different people_.

/////

Sab loses his mind when Hackman scores his first NHL goal. It’s nasty, straight through traffic and behind Rinne before the goalie’s even realized it’s coming. It glances back out, but the horn sounds and _Hackman scored_. Hackman looks gobsmacked, absolutely shocked that it went in, and Sebastian plows into him at top speed, screaming his congratulations in as many ways as he knows how.

Hackman laughs as JB and Wags and Gunner smack into them, too, slapping his helmet and roaring with the rest of the crowd, their little huddle drifting towards the boards.

It’s good, Sab thinks as they skate towards the bench, grinning like a lunatic and smacking Hackman on the ass with his stick. It’s a really good feeling.

/////

Their happiness continues even after the final buzzer, where Pekka skates over to shake his stick jokingly at Sab and cuff him over the head.

“Take care of your goalie,” Pekka says. “And your captain.”

“Take care of your crease,” Sab chirps, earning him a barked laugh from Miikka, who punches him in the shoulder.

“Good to see you doing well,” Miikka says as they shake hands. “Will you be free after postgame?”

“Busy, I think. We’re going out to celebrate Hackman’s goal.”

“World Cup, then?” Miikka says with a grin, and Richie skates back to tug Sab towards the locker room as he nods.

/////

“Do you ever wish there were other Finnish people on the team?” Hackman asks, when they’re lounging on the couch late that night, still more than a little tipsy. “So that you could, like, talk to them?”

“Um,” Sab says, “Yes. Kind of. Gunner tried to be my friend, you know, in the start. Because he is Swedish. And lots of people in my part of Finland, they are bilingual, you know? Except not me, because my dad isn’t from Uusimaa, just move there. And in school, I learn English, not Swedish.”

“You want us to, like, try to learn?”

“If,” Sab says, surprised, “If you want? I can teach you phrases. Little things. People say Finnish is the hardest language.”

“Shh, don’t tell me that. It’ll be fun,” Richie says, grinning. “Then we can, like, get in Rask’s head.”

Sab snorts.

“Nothing get in Rask’s head.”

“How do you say that in Finnish?” Richie asks.

“Nothing,” Sab says, “is _nolla_.”

“Nah-luh,” Richie repeats clumsily.

“Hm. Not so bad. First lesson is my name,” Sab says. “ _Mäkinen_ is Finnish, but _Sebastian_ , it’s Swedish, so you—”

“But I thought you were very not-Swedish? Anti-Swede?”

“My dad is Finnish, my mom is Swedish, and she gave me the name. That is probably why Gunner thought I will talk to him. Now you pay attention? Yes? Everyone pronounces my name wrong, I’m telling you.”

“Alright, lay it on us, then,” Hackman says.

Sab grins. This is gonna be great.


	6. Derrick Hackman :: Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you just awkwardly come out to me?” Fitzy asks, sounding delighted.
> 
> “Maybe,” Derrick hedges. “Does it matter?”
> 
> “I think it matters a little, yeah,” Fitzy says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Derrick Hackman's follow-up piece. It comes after his first one (Chapter 4) and after Sebastian's (Chapter 5), but it does overlap with Leo's (Chapter 1). Just to be clear. 
> 
> There are no new tags for this chapter—homophobia and violence from earlier chapters are referenced, but even the references are non-graphic and non-detailed. Just to be safe: there is one use of the Q word, but it's used by a gay character as a blanket term for LGBT+ people and not as a slur.

# Derrick Hackman :: Part Two

####  **2016** **  
****SPRING :: LAS VEGAS**

**Unknown** 1/15/2016   
Hey Derrick, is this still your number?   
This is Braden McCann

**Unknown** 1/15/2016   
I just wanted to see how you’re doing

**Unknown** 1/15/2016   
I know it’s been a long time, but I wasn’t   
sure you had anybody to talk to

**Unknown** 1/15/2016   
If you don’t want to talk, you can just   
ignore these and I’ll assume it’s the   
wrong number

/////

Derrick’s had a couple texts just hanging out on his phone for a few months now.

Apparently, today is the day to answer them.

He’s waited long enough that he’s feeling nervous about it, though. He knows he needs an extra push, and who better to do the pushing than the sage gay man taking an ice bath in the tub next to his?

“Hey Fitzy?”

“Yeah?”

“Um,” Derrick says, because he doesn’t actually know where to start.

“What?” Fitzy asks, cracking an eye open and turning to look at him.

“Say that your, like,” Derrick huffs a sigh, shifting in the icy water, “former best friend slash romantic interest texted you after, like, a few years of silence, and you didn’t text them back right away, but you know you should.”

Fitzy blinks at him for a second, then says, “Is that a question? I missed the question part, kid.”

“Oh! Yeah. What would you say?”

“That’s a lot of missing context, bud,” Fitzy says. “I assume something happened, if you’re not best friends anymore.”

“Well,” Derrick says, “Yes, but it wasn’t my friend’s fault. And I was fucked up for awhile after, you know, and he quit—um. They... weren’t around. Anymore.”

He can feel his cheeks heat up at the slip, but he’s already pretty red from the cold, so Fitzy won’t notice.

“Did you just awkwardly come out to me?” Fitzy asks, sounding delighted.

“Maybe,” Derrick hedges. “Does it matter?”

“I think it matters a little, yeah,” Fitzy says. “But I won’t tell anybody, obviously.”

“No, I know,” Derrick says quickly. “It’s just—”

“Ten minutes is up,” one of the trainers interrupts, poking his head around the doorframe. “Get out or you’ll freeze your nuts off.”

“Aye-aye, captain,” Fitzy says, standing up in one fluid motion. He motions at his junk and says, “Well?”

The trainer’s eyes flick to Fitzy’s crotch, then back up to his face, grinning.

“Yep, goods are still intact.”

“Thanks, Jesse.”

“Um,” Derrick says as the trainer leaves, “Does he need to check my—”

“No, kid, it’s just a joke between me and him,” Fitzy tells him. “But forget that, keep talking.”

“Oh,” Derrick says, rubbing himself down with a towel and then pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “Um, yeah. We were D-partners and I billeted with his family, and, uh. It was complicated, but basically we kissed once, his dad caught us, I got kicked out, and the next day I got hurt bad enough that I got sent home.”

“Shit,” Fitzy says, eyes wide as he shrugs into an Aces hoodie that looks like it wouldn’t zip over his shoulders if he tried. “Is that the last you heard from him?”

“It’s the last time I saw him,” Derrick corrects. “But we stayed in contact through his older sister for awhile. It just sort of petered out when she went off to school, he quit hockey, and I got drafted.”

“And now he texted you?”

“A bit after you came out, yeah.”

Derrick finishes lacing up his shoes before Fitzy, so he leans back against the wall to wait for him.

“Do you want to talk to him?” Fitzy asks finally, when he’s as dressed as he’s going to get.

“Yeah. Yes, I do,” Derrick says with no hesitation. “But I might’ve waited too long.”

“Don’t overthink it,” Fitzy says, slinging an arm over Derrick’s shoulder as they walk through the hallways to the players’ lounge to find Richie and Sebs. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to hear from you no matter what you have to say.”

/////

**Derrick Hackman** 12:56   
Hey Braden

**Derrick Hackman** 12:56   
This is still my number

**Derrick Hackman** 12:57   
I’m doing well, right now. I’m sorry I didn’t   
reply sooner, I was a bit overwhelmed

/////

Derrick turns his phone off for the drive back to their building. His roommates are in the back seat, so Fitzy gets shotgun. He keeps giving Derrick meaningful looks that are the least subtle things Derrick has ever seen.

Fitzy is the worst at secrets. Also, it doesn’t matter, because Sebs and Richie already know about this shit.

“Hey Dick,” Derrick says on impulse.

“Yeah?” Richie answers from the back.

“You know how I’m bi, I liked my teammate in juniors, and it ended badly?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“I just told Fitzy, and now he thinks he’s special.”

“You’re not,” Richie says immediately, leaning between the seats. “He told us _months_ ago.”

Derrick grins. He can always count on Richie to take Fitz down a peg.

/////

There are five text messages waiting for Derrick when he gets to his bedroom and turns his phone on. He takes a deep breath and opens the thread.

**Braden McCann** 1:08   
Oh shit

**Braden McCann** 1:08   
I mean hey!!

**Braden McCann** 1:09   
Don’t worry about it I obviously   
understand

**Braden McCann** 1:10   
I just didn’t know if you had anyone   
to talk to and I missed you

**Braden McCann** 1:12   
Or whatever

**Derrick Hackman** 1:24   
You missed me or whatever?

**Braden McCann** 1:25   
Shut up Hacks

Derrick types out his response— _I missed you or whatever, too, Canner_ —but it seems a little too much for right now, so he just puts his phone down on his bedside table and goes to get a snack.

/////

“Now I get why you fought that guy in Boston,” Fitzy says at the rink the next morning. “And here I thought it was to defend my honor.”

“I mean, it kinda was,” Derrick says. “I was pissed for you, not me.”

“Yeah, it just makes more sense that a queer kid would lose it over a shitty chirp, y’know?”

“I guess,” Derrick says, even though he really isn’t sure.

/////

**Derrick Hackman** 4:34   
I missed you or whatever, too, Canner

**Braden McCann** 4:45   
I’m glad. I’m really sorry I lost contact

**Derrick Hackman** 4:48   
I mean, your dad took your phone, right?

**Braden McCann** 4:53   
Yeah, but I could’ve found a way

**Derrick Hackman** 4:34   
And risked getting caught

**Braden McCann** 4:45   
You would’ve been worth it

/////

They beat the Yotes at home, and Derrick gets a secondary assist on Steve-O’s game-winning goal.

When he checks his phone afterward, Braden’s sent him a block of celebratory emojis that he laughs at, followed by one other text:

**Braden McCann** 9:25   
Sorry if that was too much earlier :/

**Derrick Hackman** 10:40   
It’s okay

**Derrick Hackman** 10:40   
You were my best friend

**Braden McCann** 10:42   
You’re not going all no homo on me   
now, are you?

Derrick sits down hard in his stall and takes a deep breath.

“Hey Pac-Man!” Richie calls from across the room. “Wanna go to Coyote Ugly? It’s next on the list.”

“Um,” Derrick says, still looking at his phone. “I…”

“The reviews are very bad,” Sebs says. “There are bras hanging from the ceiling.”

“It’s got 2.5 stars on Yelp,” Richie supplies. “We can get wasted on $20 Miller L—”

“Yes,” Derrick says decisively, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Yes, let’s go. Sounds great.”

/////

Derrick makes an effort to be either drunk, hungover, or asleep for the next thirty-six hours, so when an intern yells, “Being gay is not a _joke_!” at Gordo during team breakfast in Sunrise, Derrick drops his fork with a clatter.

“I never said it was,” Gordo’s says, laughing. “Nobody is mad about this that isn’t also mad about real-life gay people.”

“Not one gay person polled was offended,” Fitzy offers, and Steve-O reaches across Parse to give Fitzy a high five.

Derrick feels pretty bad for Nora’s intern, who looks like she’s at her wit’s end, so he waits to ask what’s going on until she’s finished trying to chew them out.

“Oh, you were in a coma, right,” Richie says when he asks, whipping out his phone and thumbing through a series of videos. “Gordo and Bouche made out at last night and we all videoed it.”

“Uh. Why?”

“Who the fuck knows?” Richie laughs, pulling Derrick in close to push the screen in his face. “But look at Gordo’s face in this one. He looks like he’s gonna cry.”

/////

**Braden McCann** 12:02   
Would it be too repetitive to apologize   
again?

**Derrick Hackman** 2:23   
It’s okay. Again

**Braden McCann** 2:26   
I swear I’m not trying to freak you out.   
I know we never got to talk about it,   
but I liked you in a huge gay way

**Derrick Hackman** 2:31   
I don’t think I ever knew that

**Braden McCann** 2:38   
I kissed you

**Derrick Hackman** 2:39   
I remember

**Braden McCann** 2:40   
So that wasn’t enough of a clue, huh?

/////

Every time Derrick so much as looks away from his teammates, they get into some stupid shit.

It’s been three days to the hour since the last incident when he hears Parse roar, “He punched _who_?!” from across the room.

“There it is,” Steve-O says, and starts shoving eggs into his mouth at lightning speed.

“Is it just me, or does anger make him grow six inches?” Richie asks, scraping the last bit of yogurt out of his cup.

“No, I think Gordo get smaller,” Sebastian says.

Derrick cranes his neck to see what’s happening; Parse is now stooping down to cradle someone’s face in his hands.

“Legolas, what do your elf eyes see?” Kip asks from a few seats away.

“Parse and Wags are having a moment,” Derrick says. “Really didn’t see that one coming.”

“You think Fitzy is jealous?”

“I think Fitzy is choking on his smoothie, actually.”

Parse drops Wags’ face and turns in a slow circle, glaring at every face in the room.

“Where,” he growls, and the whole dining hall falls silent, “Is Steven Bouchard?”

Steve-O shoves an English muffin in his mouth and books it.

/////

**Braden McCann** 9:20   
You never said whether you had anyone   
to talk to about what was going on

**Derrick Hackman** 9:26   
Apparently I have a whole team of   
people

**Braden McCann** 9:29   
Oh! You’re out to your team?

**Derrick Hackman** 9:34   
Only a few of them. The others just keep   
surprising me

/////

**Derrick Hackman** 11:31   
Are you still in school?

**Braden McCann** 11:32   
Nah, I’m an EMT

**Derrick Hackman** 11:34   
Oh wow. Where?

**Braden McCann** 11:36   
Baltimore

**Derrick Hackman** 11:45   
Oh

**Braden McCann** 11:46   
Yeah

**Derrick Hackman** 11:46   
I’ll be in DC tomorrow

**Braden McCann** 11:47   
I know

/////

Derrick finishes packing early and goes to knock on Fitzy’s door.

“Hey,” he says when Fitzy opens it.

“Hey, man,” Fitzy says. “Come on in.”

Derrick walks in, only to find that Parse is splayed out on the near bed and Sebastian is asleep on the far one.

“Hey, Pac-Man,” Parse sighs, and rolls over to wrap himself in the comforter.

“Is he okay?” Derrick asks in a low voice.

“Oh, for sure,” Fitzy says. “He’s debating whether he should tell Yates that Steve-O punched Wags, or just cut out the middleman and strangle Steve-O himself.”

“Oh,” Derrick says.

“Wags deserved it, by the way,” Fitzy says. “So what’s up with you?”

“Um,” Derrick says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, you know that, uh, friend? That I talked to you about?”

“You mean your _friend_ ,” Fitzy says, and winks at him theatrically. “From _juniors_.”

“Have you ever been subtle? Like in your entire life?”

“Quite often, actually,” Fitzy says, and starts piling his junk into a suitcase. “Did you ever text your _friend_?”

“Yeah, we’ve been texting. It turns out he lives in Baltimore.”

“Yikes. He gonna come down to see you?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Do you want him to?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

With a sigh, Fitzy sits down heavily on his bed and starts to comb his fingers through Parse’s hair.

“Tell us about him,” he says, and Parse rolls over so that his head is pushed up against Fitzy’s thigh. They both look at Derrick, expectant, and Derrick starts to talk.

He tells them about meeting Braden, about moving in with him. He tells them about the day Braden got his license and drove Derrick out to a farm where they sat with their feet in a creek for hours and got sunburned all down their right sides; he tells them about Braden’s passionate, fruitless love for the bass guitar; he tells them about Braden’s mom forcing Braden to shave his mohawk off the same day he got it, but about how she let them take pictures before they went back to the barber.

“When did you know you liked him?” Parse asks.

Derrick smiles and looks at his feet, because that feeling was so gradual and monumental that it’s attached to Braden’s crooked smile, Braden’s hyena laugh, Braden’s congratulatory fist bumps—a thousand little moments, none of which Derrick could put an exact date on. Being best friends was never drowned out by wanting more.

Derrick’s still talking when Sebastian has gotten up and packed, and he’s still talking when they make their way to the elevators.

When they’re in the lobby, Fitzy puts a hand on Derrick’s arm and says, “Pac-Man. You gotta go see this boy.”

/////

Derrick’s been nervous a lot in his lifetime.

He was nervous on draft day, nervous for his first practice in the A, nervous about getting back CT scans after injuries and nervous about keeping his spot on the roster.

But he’s never been so afraid of anything as he was when he made eye contact with Braden in that bathroom mirror seven years ago, and that fear is building up again tonight.

He says as much to Sebastian and Richie while they watch him try to pick between his too-dressy oxfords and too-casual T-shirts.

“That’s kinda sweet, bro,” Richie says, and leans his head on Sebastian’s shoulder. “He kissed you last time, didn’t he? So maybe he’ll kiss you again.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Derrick says, and turns to look through Richie’s clothes, too. “But his sister’s coming.”

/////

The walk from the hotel to the restaurant is just long enough to for Derrick to become uncomfortable with the tightness of Richie’s pea coat on his shoulders. He’s debating taking it off before entering the restaurant when he hears his name called from the doorway.

Derrick looks up.

“Hey, man,” Braden says, loping over. “Lori’s already inside getting us a table. Made me stand out in the snow, freezing my ass off.”

“It’s 33 degrees, McCann,” Derrick says, on auto-pilot. “It’s all melting when it hits the ground.”

“My _ass_ is gonna hit the ground when it freezes off.”

Derrick grins at him, jostling his shoulder as they pass through the doors.

“There’s Lori,” Braden says, pushing Derrick towards the back of the room while waving off the hostess.

Derrick tries and fails not to stare at both of them throughout dinner. He catalogues Braden’s full, dark beard (which is new), and the half-hidden scar on his upper lip (also new), and the careful way he’s holding himself, less sprawling and loose than he used to be.

Derrick wonders if that’s just the way Braden is now, or if it’s because Braden is currently uncomfortable.

Lori’s grown up, too. She’s, what, 24? 25? It takes Derrick a little while to figure out that she no longer has bangs, but he spots the tattoo peeking out from under her collar right away.

Braden smiles at him, wide and happy, and Derrick smiles back.

/////

Lori leaves after dinner since she has to work early, but Braden swears he has time to stick around. It’s late enough that they leave the restaurant out of courtesy to the staff, so they climb into Braden’s old SUV and drive.

“What happened?” Derrick finally forces himself to say. “Like, afterwards.”

They both know what he’s talking about.

“Coach Garringer ripped into us,” Braden says. “He was so mad. Paite wasn’t happy, either, but I think he was trying to play Good Cop or something, because the guys didn’t hate him like they hated Garringer. Fuzz and Jeremy tried to get him fired; they couldn’t, so they just graduated and everything kind of quieted down once they were gone.

“My dad let me play again once we knew you weren’t coming back,” Braden says. His face twists up when he says it, and Derrick’s glad for a moment that he has to turn his head in order to hear. Braden’s expression gives Derrick the details that the words don’t quite get across.

“I didn’t really want to, though. I stuck it out, but I was never really committed. I think Dad realized that after awhile, so he sort of laid off. Although—part of that was probably him distancing himself.”

“Do you—” Derrick starts, but he isn’t sure what he wants to say. Braden glances over at him, since they’re at a light, and Derrick shrugs.

“You can ask whatever you want, Derrick,” Braden says softly.

“Lori mentioned you went to UVA.”

“Only for a year. My parents split up, and Dad—”

“Wait, what? Your parents—”

“Yeah, Mom kicked Dad out. I haven’t talked to him in years. So, uh, when Dad claimed legal ownership of the house, Mom decided not to fight and moved to a condo over in Baltimore. That was during the summer after my freshmen year, and I figured Mom needed me at home more than I needed to be getting a degree I wasn’t even sure I wanted.”

“And now you’re an EMT.”

“Yeah. I got certified about two years ago.”

“That’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” Braden says, smiling. “It’s—rough, sometimes, but I’ve made some really good friends on the job, and they make things easier.”

“Same,” says Derrick. “You should meet them.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. You should come to the game tomorrow. I mean, if you don’t have to—”

“No, no, I’m free,” Braden says quickly, and Derrick can’t stop the grin that spreads across his face.

/////

After their win the following night, Derrick doesn’t even have to work to convince his friends to go out for drinks with him.

Derrick pays the cab driver, which means his roommates, his captain, and his goalie are already making their way over to Braden, who obviously recognized them and waved them over.

He can’t hear what’s being said, but Fitzy’s face is gleeful enough that Derrick realizes this may not have been a good idea.

“—didn’t tell us you were _hot_ ,” Fitzy’s saying when Derrick approaches the table. Everyone else is laughing, and Braden blushes beautifully under his beard.

“I mean, obviously he had to be, if Pac-Man’s still carrying a torch after seeing _Parse_ naked,” Richie reasons.

“Please, _please_ shut up,” Derrick begs.

“Don’t worry,” Richie reassures Braden. “We all know Parse is tiny, if ya get what I’m saying.”

Parse raises an eyebrow and turns to Fitzy, obviously waiting for his boyfriend to defend him.

“He’s, uh, proportionate?” Fitzy says, which earns him a smack to the chest.

“This was a terrible idea,” Derrick says to Lori, who laughs and pats him on the back.

“And yet,” she says, smiling at him fondly, “I think everything is going to be just fine, don’t you?”

/////

Curfew comes too soon, and the guys tactfully leave Derrick and his friends alone while they call a cab.

Snowflakes billow around them, whipped around by cars driving past. The lights of the city turn the sky a deep, ugly orange, and muddy slush crunches under Derrick’s boots.

He gnaws on his lip, not sure how to start.

“I’ll warm the car up,” Lori says, and hugs Derrick tight before she goes.

Derrick stares down at the asphalt and tries to think about what he should say.

“Thank you,” he settles on.

“For what?” Braden asks. His voice is drowned out by the sound of cars roaring through the intersection beside them, but Derrick can read his lips.

“For, you know…” Derrick starts, then stops. “For texting me, even though I disappeared on you.”

“Oh,” Braden says. “I mean, you’re welcome, but you know I was never mad at you for leaving, right? I knew you had to move on.”

“No I didn’t,” Derrick says.

“What?”

“I didn’t have to move on.”

Braden looks away, eyebrows furrowed.

“But, I mean, for your career. I was never—the team wasn’t good enough for you,” he says. “You had to move on.”

The traffic light changes, and the noise dies down.

“Not from you,” Derrick says, into the relative quiet.

Braden makes a wounded noise and brings a hand up to his mouth, still looking anywhere but Derrick’s face.

“I’m scared of a lot of things, Braden,” Derrick says. “But I just keep on coming back to you.”

Braden nods and glances up, eyes shining.

Derrick jerks his arms, awkward and unsure, in a small ‘bring it in’ motion, and Braden reaches for him, gripping hard. Derrick can hear him sniffling, breaths scratching, and he thinks, for a moment, that he would like for Braden to kiss him.

But maybe not yet. Maybe that can wait for another day.

“We’re gonna have to go slow,” Derrick says, “If you want to at all.”

“Yes,” Braden says, voice wet. “Yeah, okay.”

Derrick nods, squeezes him once, and lets go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part of the show where I acknowledge (but do not apologize for) the length of time between posts.


End file.
